


Strong People are Harder to Kill Than Weak People (and More Useful in General)

by KHansen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aard the Bard (Mentioned), Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Buff Jaskier | Dandelion, Buff! Jaskier! Rights!, Feats of Skill, First Kiss, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, M/M, Massage, Minor Angst, Parkour, Pole Dancing, Rock Climbing, Tags will be updated continually, Thirsty Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Watermelon Death, Winter At Kaer Morhen, Wrestling, free solo climbing, freerunning, it's my fic so i make the rules, kicking, like really good, pole dance combat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25218820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: He thinks Jaskier has some muscle, the human must, to be able to walk the fifteen-ish miles they travel every day from sunup to sundown while also carrying his lute and a one-sided conversation the entire way.Geralt discovers that Jaskier is so much more ripped than he previously thought, and also that he might be more than a little thirsty for his bard.Or: A self-indulgent series of crack one-shots about Jaskier being buff as hell and Geralt constantly being blown away by it until they bone.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 186
Kudos: 931





	1. Watermelon, Meet Thighs

**Author's Note:**

> I had a galaxy brain idea to write an entire fic about Jaskier being buff and then I had an even more galaxy brain idea to get prompt requests from the Witcher!Jaskier Discord bc we're all Geralt in this fic.
> 
> We're thirsty as hell for Buffskier.
> 
> (The majority of chapters will not include smut and the ones that do will have a content warning in the beginning notes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt doesn't believe that Jaskier can crush a watermelon between his legs. That's not something humans can do, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched [this lady crush a watermelon between her thighs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0kz3t2ZpwxQ) like five times and if I wasn't bisexual before BOY HOWDY I am now.

It’s been quite some time since Geralt has been a human, so he can hardly be to blame for the rust on his knowledge of human physiology. He’s been a Witcher for nearly sixty years, for the gods sake, that’s almost an entire human lifetime (he thinks, he’s not entirely certain how long humans live). What he does remember is tainted by his Witcher upbringing: the mutagens will make them stronger, faster, more durable than humans; if he isn’t careful he could snap a human’s neck without exerting himself; he’ll live longer than humans, no one’s sure how long a Witcher will live; he can eat much more than a human to ensure he will be more powerful than the monsters that he fights, the food providing extra bursts of energy. 

So, he’s deduced over the years that humans are somewhat… fragile. Even the bones of the burly looking ones, whose bodies ripple with muscle from hard labor, will still snap beneath the touch of a Witcher. Their bodies will bend and break under enough duress, he’s found enough corpses to attest to that fact, and the breaking point of humans is much sooner than the breaking point of Witchers. That being said, Geralt still isn’t one-hundred percent sure  _ what _ exactly is the breaking point of humans. 

Some of them are so much more breakable than others, looking like porcelain dolls that will crack if he so much as looks at them too long. Others look like they’re made of sturdy oak trees and like they might have a decent chance of lasting in a sparring match with a Witcher such as himself if they were to try. One would think Geralt would know more about human physiology since he’s started traveling with one, or rather since one decided to travel with him and he stopped bothering with telling him to fuck off, but Jaskier’s difficult to learn from.

The bard has been walking beside Roach for something like six months now, and Geralt thinks he’s nineteen? He thinks Jaskier mentioned his age at some point but honestly he’s forgotten what it was; however, the young human  _ looks _ in that range of “older than boyhood but not quite fully grown” with some lingering softness in his cheeks still. But that’s where Geralt’s ability to tell Jaskier’s age ends since the bard wears such ridiculous clothes with puffy sleeves and roomy trousers that he can’t see much of Jaskier’s anatomy.

He thinks Jaskier has some muscle, the human must, to be able to walk the fifteen-ish miles they travel every day from sunup to sundown while also carrying his lute and a one-sided conversation the entire way. But the bard, for all his boasting of his many conquests and the way he wears his doublets indecently open and his shirts improperly unlaced, is rather modest when it comes to bathing and prefers his privacy even if he doesn’t mind Geralt’s own occasional nudity. So, he figures Jaskier is a little above average in the physical fitness department purely because he travels with Geralt and also had traveled before Geralt on foot around the Continent, but he doesn’t think Jaskier is exceptionally fit by any means.

The whole reason Geralt got caught in this train of thought is the fact that Jaskier was complaining about his legs being tired as they passed a, admittedly, rather beautiful meadow. Clearly the bard wanted to stop and enjoy the Summer sun and weave flower crowns or some such nonsense but Geralt had rebutted him by pointing out they were almost to town and also that Jaskier has walked farther distances without complaining even once. Which proved to be a fatal error as the bard took it as a compliment instead of just a statement of fact like it was and is now obnoxiously bragging about the strength of his legs.

“I’ve been told that I have calves to die for, now I don’t know if that’s true as I’m not and never have been much of a  _ calf _ person but I do know that I’m rather proud of my thighs,” Jaskier is prattling with a pleased smile and a bounce in his  _ oh so fatigued _ step, “I’ve always carried quite a bit of strength in these old legs, in part from my upbringing. We Pankratz’ bred and, I assume, still breed horses and said horses needed to be broken before we could sell them so I spent much of my youth on the backs of mighty steeds. That, in tandem with my basic sword training that all nobility goes through, becoming a traveling bard, and my many daring escapes out of my lovers’ second story windows led to an experiment last Winter before I left Oxenfurt again.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, genuinely interested but not wanting Jaskier to know that. The bard does have a way with words and the confidence with which he holds himself never ceases to amuse Geralt as he chatters at the Witcher’s side.

“Yes, Priscilla, I’ve told you about her, yes? Well, Priscilla had seen a strongman in the circus crush a gourd between his legs and she suggested I try it. Valdo, the cad, laughed and said I’d break my femur before the rind even cracked,” Geralt secretly agrees with this Valdo character who Jaskier has mentioned multiple times, sometimes pleasantly and sometimes with such vitriol he has no idea whether Valdo is a friend or not, “I’ve never been a man to back down from a challenge, though, so we set out for the market and got our hands on a pumpkin and-”

Geralt snorts loudly, interrupting Jaskier and making the human shoot him a mildly annoyed look, “You’re not honestly trying to tell me you crushed a pumpkin between your legs, are you?”

“That’s exactly what I did, Geralt,” Jaskier sniffs, crossing his arms and turning his nose up at Geralt’s doubt, “We got a pumpkin from the market and brought it back to the inn and I put the thing between my thighs and crushed it until it split open.”

“You did.”

“Yes!”

Geralt rolls his eyes in disbelief, “You shouldn’t tell tales, Jaskier, someone might expect you to deliver on them.”

“I’ll prove it!” Jaskier’s cheeks are flushed with irate indignation, “When we reach town. Unfortunately, most gourds are out of season but a watermelon can’t be too far off.”

“A watermelon,” the Witcher scoffs and shakes his head, “Yeah, sure. Quit lying, bard.”

“I am not lying!” Jaskier dances ahead of Roach and spins around to walk backwards, glaring Geralt down with his hands on his hips, “Tell you what, I’ll make a wager on it.”

“A wager?” He raises an eyebrow at the bard but can’t deny the spark of interest at the thought of winning a bet. Geralt’s always been good at gambling, usually leaving Kaer Morhen quite a bit richer while his brothers leave a decent amount poorer.

Jaskier nods firmly, “A wager. I’ll bet you fifty ducats that I can crush a watermelon between my thighs.”

Geralt’s impressed with how far Jaskier is willing to lean into this falsehood. He’s never seen a human do anything of that nature before, and if his Oxenfurt friend had only ever seen a  _ strongman _ from the circus do it then the odds of Jaskier being able to do it are slim to nothing. The man doesn’t look like he could join the circus as their next strongman, whether he wore puffy shirts or not he wouldn’t be able to hide that amount of bulk.

“Fine,” Geralt nods once, “Fifty ducats. I look forward to my night at the Passiflora you’re going to be paying for the next time I’m in Novigrad.”

Jaskier just rolls his eyes and turns around, walking quietly for a while before starting to hum to himself. Geralt’s not quite sure what dictates whether Jaskier will be talking, plucking, singing, humming, whistling, or strumming while they’re on the road but he does know that the bard never stays silent for long. The longest stretch of time he’s seen Jaskier be quiet was an entire hour the morning after a tryst with a man for whom he broke his hour of silence to wax poetic in a raspy voice about how well endowed his partner had been the night before. If Geralt could blush he would have been red in the face from the mental images it brought forth.

They reach town a little over an hour later and while Geralt goes to the notice board to see if there’s any need for a Witcher (to his disappointment, there isn’t), Jaskier heads for the market to purchase a watermelon. He returns with the oblong fruit in hand, the melon a decent size and looking like it might weigh around ten kilos. Jaskier tucks it under his arm and peers at the notice board that Geralt is still lingering by so that they could meet up again.

“Any luck?”

Geralt grunts and shakes his head with a displeased frown, “Not as such. Let’s keep moving, we can get an hour outside of town before nightfall and then make camp. Save some coin.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jaskier nods cheerfully, even if his shoulders slump slightly from not being able to stay and perform in the tavern. Well, strictly speaking the bard  _ could _ stay behind, but they both know that Jaskier won’t unless they’re truly desperate for money and they aren’t just yet. Geralt mounts Roach and they continue on their way, leaving the town at their backs as they walk down the road.

Jaskier is whistling cheerfully, the tune sounding vaguely familiar to Geralt but he’s not sure where he might have heard it before, as he fiddles with the watermelon. He passes it from hand to hand, almost tossing it, until his wrists seem to get tired and he tucks it under his arm again and bobs his head to whatever the tune he’s whistling is. Geralt watches with a tiny smile as Jaskier taps his fingers on his thigh and bounces with each step as he switches to humming the song, occasionally whispering lyrics under his breath which makes the Witcher realize he recognizes the song because it’s one that Jaskier is working on and hasn’t finished yet.

The sun is low in the sky when Geralt calls for them to make camp, wanting Jaskier to have ample light to set up and create a fire while the Witcher hunts. That’s one part of human anatomy he knows well, they can’t see in the dark nearly as well as Witchers can due solely to the vertical pupils Witchers have. When Geralt returns with two rabbits, the watermelon is abandoned by Jaskier’s bedroll (which they bought just last week since Geralt tired of listening to the bard complain about dirt in his hair) while the bard in question is brushing down an untacked Roach.

Ordinarily Geralt would tell Jaskier to keep his hands off of the horse, but since learning that Jaskier’s family bred horses he feels a little more comfortable with the man’s apparent skill with the beasts. Jaskier is tapping the toes of his boots and pivoting his feet around as he dances to the music that Geralt assumes is just constantly streaming through his brain like a river, his hips swaying gently and his head bobbing while he brushes Roach down with long, sweeping strokes. Roach looks rather pleased by her treatment, her coat shining and cleaner than it has been since the last time they stopped in a town overnight and she was brushed down in a proper stable. Geralt doesn’t neglect his horse by any means, he just doesn’t have the tools to fully dote upon the mare and he wonders how Jaskier has gotten her so clean when he spots the brand new curry comb poking out of Jaskier’s pocket.

“When’d you buy her a curry comb?” Geralt asks and Jaskier leaps about a foot into the air with a startled yelp, accidentally slapping his hand down on Roach’s shoulder and the mare gives him an irritated look with an annoyed toss of her mane.

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt! Step on a twig or something next time before you send me to my early grave!” Jaskier grabs at his chest dramatically as he catches his breath, his face pale but quickly turning red with embarrassment at being snuck up on. Geralt smirks at the thundering of Jaskier’s heartbeat, able to see his thrumming pulse in his neck even if he weren’t able to hear it.

“I’ll try to remember that,” the Witcher acquiesces with a nod as he kneels down to skin the rabbits, a fire already set up and burning as the last dregs of sunlight gilds the leaves overhead against the golden sky, “The curry comb?”

“Oh, ah yes,” the bard runs his fingers through his hair in a habit that Geralt knows can be from just about any emotion but right now seems to be nervousness, “I know you tell me not to touch Roach but the poor girl is always so dusty, not that you don’t do a marvelous job brushing her down after a long day but it’s just… there’s only so much you can do with a stiff brush and soft brush. You need a curry comb to really get in there and dislodge the dirt that-”

“I know what a curry comb does, Jaskier,” Geralt chuckles quietly and spears the rabbits on the spit, setting them over the fire to roast, “Thank you.”

Jaskier blinks in surprise before smiling at the Witcher, his expression surprisingly calm for how exuberant the bard is all day every day. Geralt wonders briefly if Jaskier doesn’t get much genuine appreciation or attention and that’s why he’s so… loud, but he brushes that thought away to remain an idle curiosity. “You’re welcome, Geralt,” Jaskier nods before finishing brushing down Roach and tucking the brushes into Roach’s saddlebag.

When Geralt next glances up at Jaskier it’s to the bard unlacing his trousers, his boots already off and neatly set aside, and he blinks in surprise, “What are you doing?”

“You don’t honestly expect me to get watermelon juice all over my pants, do you?” Jaskier looks up to raise an eyebrow expectantly at Geralt before just shoving his trousers down and stepping out of the pants. It’s a bit of an odd sight, Jaskier standing before him in socks, smallclothes, shirt, and doublet, but what’s more odd is how accurate Jaskier had been with his descriptions earlier in the day.

He has strong ankles and trim calves, dark hair populating the pale skin, and his thighs are thick enough with muscle to fill out his smallclothes. His inner thighs rub together at the top of his legs as he walks over to the watermelon, bending down to pick it up and Geralt has to quickly avert his eyes lest he start thinking some rather… untoward thoughts about the bard’s pert rear end. The Witcher swallows thickly, suddenly feeling the inklings of doubt about his self-assured victory in their bet.

“Alright, I’ve gotta find the right, uh,” Jaskier sits down on the dirt a few meters from his bedroll and shucks off his doublet, tossing it on top of his folded trousers before placing the melon between his thighs and crossing his ankles, “the right position, you know. Don’t want it slipping or giving me a nasty bruise.” 

“How would it bruise you?” Geralt asks curiously, his brows drawing together in confusion.

Jaskier adjusts the melon, twisting it a few times until it sits comfortably between his thighs, “Um, if I squeeze hard enough I’d bruise myself against the rind of the melon since it’s rather hard.” He angles his feet slightly outwards so his ankles lock together and places his hands on the ground on either side of his hips, splaying his fingers out in the dirt, “Alright, okay. Okay. Here goes.”

Geralt watches in awed fascination as Jaskier takes a deep breath and flexes his legs, lifting himself onto his braced hands. His fingertips dig into the ground and his cheeks steadily turn pink as he focuses his effort on the melon and both Geralt and Jaskier shout in surprise when it suddenly bursts, sending some of the red flesh upwards into Jaskier’s face and coating the front of his shirt.

“Holy shit,” Geralt gapes as Jaskier laughs and wipes his eyes clean of juice with his sleeve before picking up the melon and holding it out to Geralt in one hand, a rakish grin on his lips.

“You hungry?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No watermelons were harmed in the writing of this fic.


	2. Climber? I Barely Knew Her!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Geralt can't quite reach a kill, Jaskier volunteers to climb a cliff for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Climbing was requested by [screwthepurplegiraffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/screwthepurplegiraffe/pseuds/screwthepurplegiraffe). Aleia, I hope I did this justice for you.
> 
> Jaskier performs a form a rock climbing in this ficlet called [free solo climbing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Free_solo_climbing), please do not attempt this unless you are a professional. For more information on free solo climbing, check out the 2018 documentary [Free Solo](https://films.nationalgeographic.com/free-solo).

“Fuck.”

Geralt scowls as he looks up the sheer cliff face at the griffin’s nest high above him. The battle against the beast had been disappointingly short, and normally that’s a good thing since it means Geralt is getting away with no new injuries and plenty of daylight remaining to actually get some errands run in the same day in town. However, today it’s working against him since he had intended to shoot the damned thing in the wing and make the griffin come down where he can reach it with his sword but he got supremely lucky with his shot and the silver-tipped arrow went straight through the dumb animal’s eye. It killed the monster almost instantly but since it was flying its huge wings made it glide onto the top of the cliff and crash into its own nest, around 20 meters above the ground.

He groans and lets his head fall back more dramatically than he would normally, the damned bard is rubbing off on him. Three years of traveling together... it’s no surprise they’re picking up some of each other’s mannerisms. Geralt’s noticed that when Jaskier gets tired he becomes just as monosyllabic as the Witcher himself can be and when he pointed it out he just got an inappropriate hand gesture in response, much to his amusement.

Speaking of the devil, Geralt lifts his head when he hears Jaskier’s light footsteps picking through the undergrowth at the edge of the forest before he emerges into the clearing. “Geralt, I waited an entire twenty minutes this time before coming to find you, I hope that was long enough. I know you want me to stay behind, and I do usually! But it’s a  _ griffin _ , you’ve killed so many of them I figured it’d be  _ fine _ if I just came and watched from a safe… where is the griffin? It  _ was _ a griffin you’re contracted for, yes?” Jaskier blinks and looks curiously around the clearing for the obviously absent monster.

Geralt sighs and rubs his forehead as he tries to think of how to get up to the nest to get his proof of kill, “Yes, Jaskier, it was a griffin.”

“So you’ve already slain the beast?” He perks up, his eyebrows raising minutely in excitement and his hand diving into his doublet for the journal he keeps in his breast pocket, “What happened?”

“Shot it, got a lucky shot in,” Geralt gestures vaguely towards the top of the cliff and Jaskier follows the movement, his head tilting back until he spots the wing of the griffin hanging over the edge of the cliff.

The bard glances between the griffin at the top of the cliff and Geralt a few times, an unreadable expression on his face as he holds his charcoal pencil poised on the open page of his notebook, until he asks slowly, “Are you… going to climb up there and get it?”

“Nah, I thought I’d just let it fester and rot while I went back to town without any proof of a kill,” the Witcher crosses his arms irritably, “ _ Yes _ , Jaskier, I’m going to get up there. I just have to figure out how.”

“How…?”

Geralt huffs an annoyed sigh and rolls his eyes, “Well, I can’t exacly just climb up there.”

Jaskier blinks twice, a blank look in his eyes, “...Why not?”

“For starters, the rock is practically sanded smooth from wind,” Geralt scoffs, gesturing vaguely again, “And if I used daggers I can’t guarantee that the stone is soft enough for the blades to not break. No, I need a rope to tie to an arrow or perhaps a mage to portal me up there. Both will take time and money we don’t have.”

The bard continues to watch him as Geralt starts to pace, trying to parse out what to do, before he closes his notebook and slips it back into his doublet. Geralt barely spares him a passing glance as Jaskier walks past him to the rock wall, the bard inspecting it closely for a few minutes until he finds a narrow crack that runs up the length of the entire face. Jaskier then kicks at the rock a few times which catches Geralt’s attention, the Witcher pausing in his pacing to watch the bard scrape the sole of the toe of his boot across the stone and then press his weight behind it as though he were about to step onto the rung of a ladder. 

Seemingly satisfied by what he finds, Jaskier nods and removes his doublet, laying it across a nearby shrub so the silk isn’t resting in the dirt, and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. The folds are neat and tight and gather the excess fabric of his shirt so it pulls taut across his back, revealing to Geralt the broad shoulders he suspected Jaskier had.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Jaskier looks over his shoulder at Geralt and raises his eyebrows innocently, gesturing upwards, “I’m going to climb up there and kick the griffin down.”

Geralt appraises the cliff again before skeptically looking at Jaskier, “It’s something like twenty meters tall.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t see any real hand- or foot-holds.”

“There are a few. This crack for starters.”

The Witcher frowns at the narrow, vertical crevice, “Where are you going to put your feet?”

“On… the rock?” Jaskier tilts his head in confusion, “Is this a trick question? Have you never climbed rocks before, Geralt?”

“Of course I have,” he huffs and crosses his arms, “Fine, fuck, just get on with it then, we haven’t got all day.”

Jaskier gives him an odd look before shaking his head and cracking his knuckles by pushing one fist into the palm of his opposite hand and then repeating the motion reversed. He looks down and scuffs his boot on the dirt, then stoops down and scoops some dry soil into his hands to rub between his palms and fingers. “Keeps your hands dry,” he informs Geralt with a shrug when he spots the Witchers raised eyebrow before he reaches up as high as he can with his non-dominant hand and wriggles his fingers into the crevice.

With his dominant hand he shoves his fingers into the crack at about shoulder height before bracing one boot on the wall and then pushing himself upwards, taking a moment to scrape at the rock with the toe of his other boot until he finds a miniscule ledge for the very edge of his boot to rest on. The hand that was above his head is now level with his nose and his dominant hand is at his naval so he pulls that one out of the crevice and reaches up, jamming his fingers back into the crack above his head and then pulling himself up again. His fingertips and knuckles press against the opposite sides of the crack while his knee is flush with the wall, stepping lightly on the tiny ledge as he searches for another small foothold.

The toe of his boot finds a divot in the rock face so he moves the lower of his hands up above his head, shoving his fingers back into the crevice again and pulling himself higher. Geralt watches with wide eyes as Jaskier scales the side of this cliff with just his fingers and the tips of his boots, his exposed forearms taut from the flexed muscle. As the bard climbs, he starts to sweat and his loose shirt ends up plastered to his skin, hinting at strong biceps and a triangle-like figure. Broad shoulders and a trim waist that isn’t just an illusion made by his trousers.

Geralt gets so absorbed in watching Jaskier climb this sheer cliff face that he loses track of time, only noticing the movement of the sun when the bard reaches up to grab the edge of the top of the cliff and hoist himself up and over. “Are you good?” Geralt calls up to him, suddenly worried that Jaskier may be injured in some way, but the bard just leans over the edge and waves down to the Witcher before disappearing from view.

A few moments later the wing that dangles over the cliff jerks and sways as the corpse is shoved further over the edge. It takes Jaskier a few attempts until enough of the griffin’s weight is no longer supported by the rock and the beast tips over the edge, falling and landing heavily in a crumpled pile of broken bone at the base of the cliff. Geralt glances up at the top of the cliff and waits until he sees Jaskier’s head pop out over the edge to look down at him, giving him a thumbs up before the bard disappears again and Geralt unsheathes his sword to remove the head of the griffin. 

Once he’s relieved the corpse of its head he looks back up to see Jaskier about halfway down the cliff again, descending hand over hand faster than he climbed up. Geralt checks to make sure he’s not completely covered in gore before sheathing his sword and walking over to the crevice, holding his arms out in invitation, “Drop down, I’ll catch you.”

“You sure?” Jaskier asks, his voice muffled by his shoulder as he looks over it at Geralt, “I’m not exactly light.”

“I’ve got you.”

Jaskier nods and glances back down at Geralt again before letting go of the wall and pushing off of it with his feet so he’ll drop the last few meters a safe distance from the rock. He lands heavily in Geralt’s arms, instinctively wrapping one arm around the Witcher’s shoulders, and Geralt grunts slightly as he catches the bard. He cradles Jaskier to his chest for a few moments, the salt of the man’s cooling sweat on his skin not an unwelcome smell as it brings with it Jaskier’s natural scent of oak and petrichor, until the bard clears his throat gently and Geralt practically dumps him on the ground in his haste to set him down.

“You alright there, Geralt?” Jaskier wipes the back of his hand across his forehead before running his fingers through his sweaty hair and making the dark, disheveled strands stand on end.

Geralt grunts and turns away, changing the subject and thanking the gods that he can’t blush as he picks up the griffin head, “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Do what?” Jaskier retrieves his doublet before glancing at Geralt and then following the Witcher’s pointed look at the rock wall, “Oh, climb cliffs like that? I’ve told you I’m from Kerack, right? A little viscounty called Lettenhove that’s right on the edge of the sea. We had loads of bluffs to climb up and down to get to the beach and sometimes it was faster to scale them rather than walk to the passages that took you down to the water.” He touches Geralt’s elbow lightly as he walks by the Witcher to the trail that leads back into town and Geralt jerks slightly in surprise. He’s used to Jaskier being extremely tactile with him by now but this touch felt… different somehow.

“The thing about the bluffs is that they were made of sandstone and extremely unstable, you had to be careful climbing them or else you’d end up under several tons of rock and just be another missing kid. My brother and I were rather famous for ignoring the warnings about the bluffs and climbing them frequently, nearly became statistics ourselves once or twice,” Jaskier prattles on and Geralt stares at him a few moments longer before jogging to catch up and falling into step with the bard, listening to Jaskier regale him with stories from the bard’s childhood on the coast.


	3. Ability Unlocked: Dance Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Geralt is held mildly hostage, Jaskier breaks out a new skill with a pole to keep them safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have watched... so much pole dancing. 
> 
> The most enjoyable was [David Aeon, the 2017 Mr. Pole Dance Winner](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u66R5cOjR2U), but what I referenced the most was the pole dancing videos on my Buffskier playlist which will be linked at the end of the fic.
> 
> Suggested by [ICanHazRandom](https://icanhazrandom.tumblr.com/). Silas, I hope I did you justice.

The squelching of Jaskier’s boots with each infuriated stomp of the bard down the dirt road is the only sound he makes as he seethes. Geralt feels a mixture of sympathy and amusement as his friend storms ahead of him with balled fists at his sides, his previously pale green silks now stained a horrendous brown from the dirt that is caked into his hair and coats his skin. He knows Jaskier doesn’t usually mind being dirty, in the literal sense of the word, but Geralt can admit that it’s rather embarrassing that the bard had tripped into a deep puddle of swamp mud when walking backwards to look at Geralt while the Witcher hadn’t been watching the road for him. 

Thankfully they’re on their way back from a hunt, a nest of drowners that Jaskier had observed from a very safe distance, and as such he only had his notebook and charcoal pencil on him. If the bard had gotten his precious lute as thoroughly covered with muck as he himself is Geralt would have never heard the end of it and the Witcher would have certainly abandoned Jaskier the very next day, ten years of friendship notwithstanding. Jaskier groans in relief as they turn a bend in the road and the town comes into view again, smoke rising from chimneys into the fading light of the day.

“Thank Melitele,” Jaskier grumbles and starts to raise his hand to wipe his face again before aborting the movement. When he had tried to clear his eyes after falling, all he had done was rub the mud deeper into his skin and make his eyes water from the toxic fumes. “I fucking hate Velen.”

“Then why do you insist on accompanying me on hunts when we’re passing through?” Geralt asks in amusement, the bushel of drowner heads in his hand no longer dripping viscous ichor onto the ground.

Jaskier shoots him a lethal glare. If looks could kill… “Don’t ask stupid questions, Geralt, you know the answer to that.”

“Ah, yes, to get material for songs about me killing drowners that you make up most of anyway.”

The bard shakes his head with a muttered insult, “Fuck off. Where do you hail from, Kaer  _ Moron _ ?”

“Why do you follow me then?”

“In case you need help, of course!” Jaskier throws his hands up into the air and Geralt can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up at the bard’s indignation which only pisses Jaskier off more, “Oh, go fuck yourself, Geralt. See if I come to your rescue when you next need help.”

Geralt is grinning and shakes his head, shoving his hands in his pockets, “Jaskier, you are the  _ last _ person I’d want to come to my rescue. You’re the one who fell backwards into the swamp.”

Hurt flashes in blue eyes as Jaskier scowls at him, the effect ruined somewhat by the mud smeared across his face, and makes a rude gesture at the Witcher before storming off to the inn where they already have a room booked. Geralt watches him run off before guilt starts to creep up on him, making him feel like there’s a lead weight in his stomach and pulling his grin down to his trademark frown. That might have been a little harsh, Jaskier was already upset and Geralt just kept poking at him, kicking at the man while he was already down. Normally they poke fun at each other all the time, but he’s also never seen Jaskier this angry before, not even when they argued about the Djinn a few months back.

His thoughts are still deep in his guilt when he reaches the inn, Jaskier nowhere to be seen in the tavern on the ground floor. Presumably, the bard is upstairs taking a bath and when Geralt focuses through the din of people he can pick out Jaskier’s muffled grumbling above him in the bathing chambers. He sighs and orders himself an ale, having dropped off the drowner heads and collected his coin, before sitting down at a table in the corner of the room and settling in to brood.

Geralt’s not sure how much time has passed but he’s about three-quarters of the way through his tankard when he suddenly realizes how quiet the tavern has gone. He continues to stare at his ale as though it holds the answers to the universe but starts to listen, silently cursing when he hears mutters about “mutant scum” and “filthy Witchers” traveling between the many patrons. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts about Jaskier that he didn’t even notice the growing unrest and animosity towards him. 

That damned bard is going to get him killed one of these days, he sighs as he starts trying to think of ways to extract himself from the situation without escalating the room when he hears a door bang open upstairs and some muffled yelling. Geralt glances towards the ceiling, dread tugging at his heart as he listens to footsteps stumble down the hall and then down the stairs. Two men are holding Jaskier by the arms, the bard only half dressed in his smallclothes and a clean shirt since he must have just gotten out of the baths a few minutes before. 

They shove Jaskier up against one of the poles supporting the second floor of the inn, the modern building made out of both wood and metal for extra structural integrity in the event of a fire. The barkeep, who is also the son of the tavern owner, wouldn’t shut up about his father’s ingenuity earlier since a fire had burned down their last establishment and now they’ll at least have the bare bones still were it to happen again. The men let go of Jaskier while they surge towards Geralt, the sudden change in targets catching the Witcher slightly off guard as they yank him out of his seat and shove him down to his knees.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Geralt snarls as they twist his arm behind him and press a knife to his throat, his swords pulled free of their sheathes and tossed across the room. They skitter over the wooden floor to rest at Jaskier’s bare feet, the bard watching with wide eyes.

The men ignore him as they glare at Jaskier, the villagers just sitting back and watching the scene unfold, “Give us all your money and that fancy ass elven lute or the Witcher dies.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows in surprise, lifting his hands to shoulder height in a placating gesture, “Now, gentlemen, surely we can come to some sort of agreement-”

“Shut up! We want your money and your instrument,” the ones closest to Jaskier draw various weapons, indicating how many are openly hostile towards the bard. There’s the one holding Geralt down with the knife plus four more in front of the bard wielding swords, axes, and even a pike. Their leader, the one holding a sword, spits at Jaskier’s bare feet, “Don’t make me ask a third time or we’ll kill you  _ and _ your Witcher.”

“Who in the name of Melitele’s glorious tits sent you?” Jaskier looks bewildered as his eyes jump between the faces of the men and Geralt, clearly not recognizing any of them. 

The leader snarls and lunges forward, thrusting his sword towards Jaskier’s midsection and Geralt involuntarily cries out as he moves, instinctively, and feels the bite of the blade against his neck. Jaskier yelps and jumps away, his back hitting the pole, and his hands fly up to wrap his fingers around the metal and lift himself off the ground. He kicks his spread feet up to avoid the attack and the blade hits the pole with a loud clang. Jaskier’s heart is pounding as he angles his feet, bringing them together and down again on the man’s hand and making the sword clatter to the ground as his heels collide with the leader’s wrist.

The man holding the pike rears back and Jaskier swings himself up again, smoothly wrapping his legs around the pole high above him and letting go with his hands to grab the pike as it’s thrust at his head. In one fluid motion, Jaskier pulls the pike free of his assailant’s grasp and sits up, grabbing the pole in one hand as he slides down a few inches with the metal gripped tightly between his thighs. 

Geralt makes eye contact with Jaskier and the bard briefly mimes tucking his head down. That’s all the warning Geralt gets before Jaskier is swinging around the pole to throw the pike, his legs extending out to his side with the pole still wedged tightly between them as he hangs from one hand. The pike embeds itself in the chest of the man holding a knife to Geralt’s throat and he falls back with a strangled shout. Geralt grabs the man’s wrist and wrestles the blade from his weakening hand before hurling it with devastating accuracy into the skull of one of the men with an axe.

Jaskier is breathing fast and Geralt can smell his adrenaline as he plants his free hand below him on the pole before kicking his legs, gracefully, over his head into a horizontal handstand. The movement propels him to swing around the metal and he tucks his knees and elbows in to curl up to the pole as he avoids the flail of the sword the leader has taken back up. As Jaskier comes around again, he shoots his legs out straight to plant his feet onto the chest of the sword wielder and knocks him back into Geralt with a grunt.

Geralt grins down at him and the sour scent of urine fills the air as the man whimpers pitifully. “Call your men off,” the Witcher growls and the leader, in a burst of foolish bravery, turns to swing his sword at Geralt. Who just rolls his eyes and steps easily out of the way of the wild slash before punching the man in the face and knocking him out cold. 

Geralt scoops up the man’s sword and stalks forward with a snarl. Jaskier has scurried back up the pole again to avoid the swings of the second axe-wielder, the pike-handler having run off after being disarmed. The bard sticks his tongue out at the last attacker, impishly holding his hands up to his ears and flapping them as he blows a raspberry while sitting with his legs extended, ankles crossed, and the pole held tightly between his flexed thighs. Geralt steps up and slams the pommel of the sword down onto the man’s head, making him drop to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

“Get got, arsehole,” Jaskier makes a rude gesture with both hands as he carefully falls back and hangs upside down on the pole. Geralt is mildly shocked by the amount of dark hair on Jaskier’s torso, his shirt sliding up to his ribs from being inverted, and the Witcher’s eyes are drawn to the lean muscle that moves beneath the thin layer of fat on the bard’s stomach.

The pale skin of his inner thighs has turned dark red where his weight pulls against the pole but Jaskier doesn’t seem bothered by this as he slowly slides down and places his hands flat on the floor. He lets his legs fall forward and stands up smoothly, clapping his hands together to get the dirt off of them and adjusting his shirtsleeves as though he isn’t standing in a tavern in his underthings.

“You okay?” Geralt asks gruffly, tossing aside the sword for his far superior ones. He checks his blades for any chips or scratches and thanks his lucky stars he won’t have to resharpen their edges.

Jaskier looks up and nods, his eyes wide as he reaches between his legs to rub at the tender skin of his thighs with a grimace, “I’m fine. Guess I lied though.”

“About?” Geralt arches an eyebrow at him curiously and Jaskier grins.

“I still came to your rescue even though you were a complete dick to me earlier.”

He sighs and rolls his eyes fondly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Geralt glances at the pole as a thought comes to mind, “Where did you learn to do stuff like that?”

“Hm?” Jaskier follows Geralt’s gaze and shrugs, “You know last Summer when I went to the annual bardic tournament like I always do?” Geralt nods and follows Jaskier as he walks a bit bow-legged back up the stairs. “And I didn’t see you again until this Spring? I told you I had found a position somewhere, which wasn’t a lie as I did spend the Winter in the Countess de Stael’s court, but also I was hired on by a traveling circus troupe after the tournament.”

“A what?” Geralt’s eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise and Jaskier nods as he opens the door to their room. 

“Yeah! So, I fell in with their lot for the rest of the season and then Autumn as well because it was good coin and good company. Not that your company isn’t dear to me, darling Witcher, but I see you every year. How often do I get the opportunity to travel with a circus troupe?” The Bard glances over his shoulder with a grin, his eyes twinkling while he grabs the pair of trousers he dropped when accosted.

Geralt closes the door and sits down on the edge of his bed, tilting his head curiously, “How does you traveling with a circus result in whatever that was downstairs?”

Jaskier waves his hand vaguely and steps into his pants, “I’m getting there, have patience, Geralt. While I was traveling with them I got very close with their contortionist, Matilda. A lovely woman, I’ll tell you. My gods, the ways she could bend, the positions we made beautiful love in. Absolutely stunning. Anyhow, Matilda was from across the Great Sea, from a nation called  _ India _ , and in her lovely homeland there’s a style of dance called… er, well I can’t pronounce it but it translates to ‘pole dance’.”

“And that’s what you were doing?”

“Um, well, sort of. What I was doing was more of a… combat adaptation, if you will,” he shrugs and sits down cross-legged on his bed, facing Geralt with his hands in his lap, “the actual dancing is rather elegant and beautiful. I was a quick study and she taught me quite a bit of choreography until I couldn’t keep up with her anymore. The amount of body strength one needs for it is astounding, I could never understand how so small a woman had so many hidden muscles.”

“Huh,” Geralt thinks about how Jaskier was holding himself up on a thin metal pole with just his arms or his legs most of the time and also maneuvering around it in the open air, “Keep an eye out for if we cross paths with your circus, I think I’d like to see it.”

Jaskier lights up, his shoulders pulling back and a beaming grin splitting across his face, “Yeah? I can do that, I’ll even send word to them to try and get ahold of their traveling schedule for the rest of the year. Then we might be able to adjust our course.”

Geralt smiles slightly and nods. It’s so easy to make Jaskier happy, and when he looks so happy like this, it makes Geralt happy. Which makes him wonder why he doesn’t do it more often.

"You know, we never did find out who sent those guys."

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Bailey, did you like my easter egg?
> 
> Some other awesome, male pole dancers:  
> [Ian Shyu](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QSB2fK_i950)  
> [Kristian Lebedev](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FSdXcaSUEc0)  
> [Dimitry Politov](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Or-rf8jTvqE)


	4. The Bard Can Monkey Around a Little. As a Treat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has boundless energy sometimes and when they finally discover a good outlet for it Geralt has boundless thirst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parkour!
> 
> Requested by [kaermorons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons). Bailey, I added extra thirst just for you.

“Parkour!”

Geralt sighs and tips his head back towards the sun as he closes his eyes and prays for patience. He listens to the crunching of dirt under Roach’s hooves and the whispers of the leaves in the trees that line the road and the thump of Jaskier’s boots on the hard-packed ground as he hops off of a low rock. Those same boots then rush ahead of the mare and her rider to find another small rock to jump up and leap off, and Geralt’s about at the end of his rope.

The thing about Jaskier is that some days he wakes up and just has boundless energy. He likes to call them “buzzy days” and on buzzy days nothing settles him. Not aggressively strumming his lute as fast as he can, not reciting all twelve verses of Fishmonger’s Daughter as he skips, not even screaming to the heavens in the middle of an empty field (which Geralt has caught him doing once or seven times). These days are the bane of Geralt’s existence, for as much as he likes having Jaskier around he just cannot stand such a high frequency of activity and constant stimulation.

Lately, Jaskier has taken to a child’s game called ‘parkour’ on buzzy days. He runs around and climbs small obstacles, only to jump off of them and shout “parkour!” as he does so. Geralt’s not sure if this is one of the better outlets for the excessive energy or worst because, on the one hand, he doesn’t have to engage in conversation while Jaskier is out of breath constantly, but on the other he has to listen to-

“Parkour!”

Geralt groans and doubles over to press his forehead to Roach’s mane, his mare tossing her head irritably. Whether it’s from his shifting weight or the frequent and repetitive exclamations, he isn’t certain. He tips his head to the side to peer at the sun and has to bite back another groan, it’s only just past midday, there’s no telling when Jaskier is going to run out of steam.

“Geralt!”

He sits up quickly at the bard’s shout and squints, searching the treeline for his friend and sighing with relief when he sees Jaskier’s sunny yellow doublet down the road. Jaskier is bouncing on his toes and pointing into the trees, a bright grin on his face as he waits with barely contained excitement for Geralt to catch up. The Witcher dismounts and opens his mouth to ask what Jaskier wants when he’s interrupted before he can even speak.

“Look, look! Let’s stop for a few minutes there, it looks absolutely _beautiful_ doesn’t it? And those trees are all so climbable, Geralt,” without waiting for a response, Jaskier is taking off into the bushes and Geralt sighs for the umpteenth time before following, “And I can hear a river and I see boulders and rocks. You won’t mind lounging about for just a little while, will you? I mean, I trudge after you on the daily and I’ve never seen anything like this before so an _hour_ won’t hurt any-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt cuts him off tiredly, feeling a headache brewing behind his eyes, “It’s fine, we can stop here for a while. Roach needs a break anyway.”

Jaskier beams at him and grabs Geralt’s shoulder, giving it an exuberant shake, “Brilliant! Let me know when you want to be off again.” And then Jaskier’s doublet hits him in the face as it’s tossed aside. Geralt tries to scowl but it comes across as more of an exhausted grimace as he watches the bard shuck off his boots and socks, stuffing the stockings into his shoes and discarding them as well. Geralt idly folds up the doublet in his hands and tucks it into Roach’s saddlebag as he looks around the clearing that Jaskier has led them to.

The grove is large and clear of shrubbery between the oaks, their trunks thick with age and low branches sprawled across the ground before curving upwards towards the sun. Through the center of the grove winds a wide, slow moving river, the sides of which are lined with boulders that stick out over the water and small beaches of gravel and silt. Lily Pads float lazily atop the surface of the river, bobbing on the current, and white blooms burst out of their centers and fill the air with their sweet heady scent. 

With the spring sunlight filtering through the small green leaves that populate the tree limbs high above their heads and speckling the soft, pale green grass beneath their feet that’s dotted with tiny dandelion blooms, Jaskier has found a painting that has yet to be put on canvas, a landscape just waiting to be immortalized in song. 

Geralt suspects that, no matter what kind of day it was for him, Jaskier would have wanted to stop here and Geralt would have been hard pressed to say no. It truly is a beautiful grove and the Witcher finds his shoulders slowly losing their tension as he releases Roach’s reins so that she might graze freely while he goes to sit in the crook of one of the oak trees. He rubs his eyes and leans back against the trunk as he props one booted foot up on the branch he’s perched on before turning his gaze to Jaskier.

The bard has rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows as he jumps and swings around the branches of one of the oak trees. Leaping from limb to limb and using his momentum to jump across the empty space between trees, flipping headfirst and hooking his legs over a branch to catch himself in a nearby adjacent oak. He swings forward under the branch and grabs another limb nearby to drop down and hang from his hands for a moment before kicking his legs forward to pull himself up onto it and sit down for a minute and survey the grove.

Sweat drips down Jaskier’s throat and plasters his hair to his face, the air warm and humid from a recent rainstorm. Geralt glances away to check on Roach and when he looks back Jaskier is shirtless, shamelessly standing on a tree branch high off the ground in just his trousers. The bard is looking down at the tree limb he’s perched on with his hands on his hips so Geralt takes the opportunity to slowly rake his eyes over the sight before him.

He’s not an idiot, he’s figured out by now why it’s so tantalizing to see Jaskier in various states of undress, and this isn’t even the first time he’s seen the bard without a shirt on. Jaskier’s burst into their room in nothing but his smallclothes and boots with his lips painted scarlet once and wasn’t _that_ a sight to behold (and one Geralt thinks of often when feeling… lonely). It’s not like he sees this sort of thing _often_ since Jaskier is still relatively modest about bathing or changing clothes fully when he has the choice, so Geralt will appreciate and enjoy the chance to appraise his bard when the opportunity arises.

Sweat damp hair gently curls on Jaskier’s heaving chest and soft stomach, and the hints of muscle hidden beneath evidence of the bard’s good health are more enticing to Geralt than the sharp angles and hard edges he’s seen on the bodies of musclemen. He squints and tilts his head slightly as he watches Jaskier continue to stare at the branch until he hears the bard mutter, “I wonder if I can still do that.”

He widens his stance and bends over, placing his hands between his feet about shoulder-width apart. The Witcher blinks in surprise and his eyes widen as Jaskier then lifts his feet off of the tree limb and slowly extends them out to his sides, his toes pointed, before bringing them together above him. 

The inside of Geralt’s mouth becomes a desert as he openly stares, heat building in his gut while he ogles the subtle shifting of the bard’s deltoids and trapezii in his shoulders and back to maintain his balance. The muscles in Jaskier’s wiry forearms are taut as he grips the branch and Geralt swallows hard as he observes the twitching biceps in Jaskier’s thick arms, making him very briefly wonder if Jaskier can pick him up. He imagines the feeling of being weightless and then his back against a wall as Jasker’s long body presses up against him, he would wrap his legs around the bard’s waist and-

He quickly shuts that train of thought down, reminding himself that he’s a Witcher and heavier than the majority of humans because he’s built like a brick shithouse as a result of the mutagens, and he looks away quickly before his mind can delve any deeper into the well of indecency it’s already entered. Geralt keeps his gaze averted and his thoughts on unseemly things like harvesting drowner brains and Vesemir visiting his lady friend, whose name he can’t recall right now but he thinks starts with a T. She’s the rectoress of Aretuza, he knows that, which makes him wonder if he should ask Yennefer about it.

The tree Geralt is sitting at the base of rustles and shakes until Jaskier is suddenly hanging upside down directly in front of him. He sways back and forth and beams at Geralt as he laces his fingers behind his head and winks. Jaskier’s face is flushed and he looks ridiculous with his hair standing on end like it is and Geralt desperately wants to kiss him, his eyes flickering to Jaskier’s pink lips. They haven’t been to town in a while so Jaskier’s hair has gotten a bit shaggy and he’s grown a short scruff that shouldn’t be as mesmerizing as it is and Geralt has to force his gaze back down to meet Jaskier’s. 

Jaskier suddenly flips over, the moment shattered, and lands in a crouch on the thick branch in front of him with red cheeks and bright eyes. His bard’s heartbeat, while heavy from exertion, is not pounding like it usually does during buzzy days and he breathes out in relief that Jaskier seems to have worked through all that extra energy.

“Whatcha been doing?” Jaskier asks, plopping himself down with one knee tucked against his chest and his other foot dangling freely. His toes graze the dirt so he starts to push it around to create a small mound of soil.

Geralt shrugs and lets his head fall back against the trunk as he closes his eyes, maybe that’ll help with the heat that’s begun to make his skin prickle, “Not much, enjoying the afternoon while you do your best impression of a monkey.”

Jaskier throws back his head and laughs, his natural musk of oak and petrichor stronger with the sweat drying on his skin, “I suppose it probably did look a bit like that, eh? Like those spider monkeys we saw in Zerrikania a few summers ago. They had lovely little tails, though, that they used like a fifth hand to hold onto stuff while they jumped around the treetops. Quite the animals, monkeys, I’d rather like to see them again sometime. Although it was hot as the devil’s tit down there, oh, and _gods_ the rain! I thought the Continent was gonna flood from how much it poured!” 

As Jaskier rambles and reminisces on their worldly travels, Geralt carefully turns over in his mind the moment earlier when he very nearly kissed his bard. He’s not as upset about the idea as he thought he might be, considering he’s only interested in a platonic carnal relationship with Jaskier. He’s sure that’s what he desires. Jaskier wanting him back is just a fantasy anyway, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I Googled for this chapter:  
> \- which muscles are engaged in a handstand  
> \- gymnastics handstand on a bar  
> \- trapezius plural  
> \- what kind of tree has low hanging branches
> 
> Some of the Parkour videos I used for research:  
> [Return to the Joy: Parkour in Nature](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuhFwun5GYg)  
> [Rafe Kelley - TreeRunner](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e52zuGU7eUI)  
> [Parkour: Return to the Source](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tekwt_5HwA0)  
> [Bringing Parkour Back to Nature - Verzasca Run](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeXdkV2JtKc)


	5. Assassin's Creed: Oxenfurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has a very bad night that just does not want to let up, even once he and Jaskier try to take refuge in Oxenfurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did writing this make me want to write an Assassin's Creed AU more? Or less? The answer may surprise you.
> 
> Prompt is "freerunning", provided by [Heronfem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem), which is different from parkour in that freerunning is flashier! (I Googled it to make sure) 
> 
> Did I do right by you, Vinncenzo?

Geralt is having a very bad night.

It started with Jaskier accidentally knocking over his vial of specter oil and spilling it all over his own songbook, upsetting both of them in the process. He did apologize though and got them dinner to make up for it while Geralt went to the apothecary to see if they had any in stock and the apothecary had closed its doors for the day mere seconds before he arrived. Then, he went back to the inn to find out that the owner was unwilling to sell Jaskier any food until the bard performed for a few hours, no matter how much growling and snarling Geralt did over his shoulder. 

So, Geralt was going to fight a wraith woefully underprepared, in a bad mood, and hungry to boot. Not his worst odds, but still very undesirable. He couldn’t take Jaskier with him, because of said performance for food, and he couldn’t take Roach because the trail to the cemetery was too rocky for her to safely traverse it and not throw a shoe. All-in-all, he turned up to the fight with a deep, angry scowl on his face.

It wasn’t a particularly hard battle, the wraith wasn’t very strong, but the stupid thing was wily and fast so it’s long. Luckily, even without the specter oil, Geralt only sustained a few injuries. None on his legs, thank all the gods, as he despises limping like he’s some kind of cripple and Jaskier mother-hens him like nothing else when he has a leg wound or chest wound. No, they’re just scratches on his arms because he forgot to put on his bracers in his hurry to get to the apothecary before they closed (which was a fruitless endeavor anyway).

He’s exhausted as he hikes back to town and he’s having just... one of the  _ worst _ nights he’s had in some time when he sees torches in the town square and what looks like every single inhabitant of the town crammed into the space. Geralt bites back a groan that, if he let it out, would be long and loud in protest of whatever bullshit he’s about to stumble upon this time. The universe really hates him, he decides, for how often it’s “shit on Geralt” time and he rubs his temples before approaching the edge of the crowd to see what they’re looking at.

The humans are all surrounding Jaskier (and Geralt nearly groans again), who’s pressed with his back against the tower of their town hall and has his hands in the air. He doesn’t look  _ frightened _ per say, but he does look very nervous as his blue eyes skitter over the crowd and when they meet Geralt’s they widen just the tiniest amount. Geralt surveys him with a critical eye and is relieved to see that his bard doesn’t look debauched at all, so it’s unlikely this is caused by him sticking his cock where it doesn’t belong again.

“Where’s your Witcher, eh, bard? He’ll be getting back soon, won’t he?”

“I, ah, I wouldn’t know,” Jaskier says carefully, his voice even and raised slightly so Geralt can hear him. The Witcher appreciates it, even if it isn’t necessary, “I would assume he’s still hunting your wraith. It would be foolish of him to  _ run away, _ especially in the dark with that  _ stone _ path.” Jaskier jerks his head towards the road, glancing down at the hands of the townspeople, and covers it up by pretending to be tossing his hair out of his eyes. 

Geralt nods and starts to edge away when he sees the rocks in the human’s hands but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Jaskier. He decides not to run like Jaskier is suggesting, but instead steps behind the same apothecary that closed before he could purchase specter oil, watching from the shadows in case his bard needs help. Jaskier tries not to look at him so as not to draw attention to him but his eyes dart to the shadows Geralt melted into. 

He seems to think for a few moments before smiling suddenly and clapping his hands together, “Well gentlemen, ladies, it has been lovely being… surrounded like this. Real cozy, almost like a group hug,” he waves his hands around vaguely and Geralt frowns. What is Jaskier doing? “But I’m afraid I should be on my way.”

“You ain’t going nowhere, bard! Not till that Witcher of yours shows up!”

Jaskier hums with a shrug, “I’d prefer not to, thank you, though.” One of them thrusts their torch closer to Jaskier’s face and he leans back from the flames, “Right! I’ve just ah, forgot my horse… in a lake. So I’ll just be…” he points both fingers to the side with a nervous chuckle before darting in the opposite direction and bounding off of the brick flower bed under the nearest window of the town hall.

The townspeople shout their outrage as he grabs onto the sill of an upper window before hopping up so his feet are on the sill and his hands are braced against the top of it. The people below him start throwing their rocks and a few hit the lute slung over Jaskier’s back, making the wood groan as they thunk hollowly against it. He winces when one of the stones catches him in the shoulder and continues to move, leaping from the windowsill to grab onto a flag pole sticking out from the corner of the tower.

He swings up onto it before pushing off again to land on the roof of the building next to the town hall and sprinting into the night, disappearing from view as the flames of torches chase him. Geralt waits until the town square is empty before slipping out of the shadows and making his way to the stables of the inn. Roach is waiting for him in her stall, fully tacked and her saddlebags heavy with his and Jaskier’s belongings. Jaskier’s lute case is tied to his bag so Geralt waits with her reins in hand and baited breath for his bard.

It’s almost fifteen minutes later until he hears approaching footsteps across the rooftops before Jaskier drops down outside the stables, his heart beating fast and his breathing hard. “Geralt?” He whispers as he pushes the door open, sighing in relief when he spots the Witcher with Roach. Geralt checks over Jaskier and feels the thin tendrils of anger starting to edge at his heart when he spots a bruise on the side of the bard’s neck and he can smell the copper tang of blood in the air.

“We gotta go,” Jaskier pushes the stable door the rest of the way open and steps back, “Oxenfurt isn’t far, a day away at most. I’ve got a house there and there are apothecaries out the wazoo so you can get more specter oil and potion ingredients and the blacksmiths are top-”

“Jask,” Geralt raises a hand to silence him, “It’s fine, we’ll go to Oxenfurt. You don’t need to convince me.” He watches Jaskier’s shoulders slump as the tension is released from them and he gives Geralt a wan smile and nod.

They set out immediately and travel through the night at Jaskier’s insistence when Geralt suggests stopping to make camp and by the following morning the bard has shadows under his bloodshot eyes as he continues to walk beside Geralt, who walks beside Roach in solidarity. It doesn’t feel right to be riding right then when he doesn’t allow Jaskier to. Their stomachs are loudly growling when they spot the tall spires of Oxenfurt near midday and Jaskier gives a half-hearted whoop, too exhausted to do much more.

Jaskier leads them straight to a quaint, two-storey house on the edge of the lock that has a market and stables nearby. They untack Roach and drop off their belongings in the house before splitting up so Geralt can stable the mare while his bard rustles them up something to eat before they both collapse from hunger. It’s as Geralt is coming back out of the stables that he sees Jaskier sprinting towards him, a wild look in his blue eyes.

“Jaskier, what-” before he can finish, the bard has grabbed his hand and is hauling him along with surprising strength, weaving through the crowd of people in the streets and glancing over his shoulder. There’s a shout and then Geralt spots several men that he recognizes from the town they just escaped and groans, “What did you  _ do _ ?”

“For once, Geralt, it wasn’t me!” Jaskier pulls him around a turn into a narrow side street, searching the buildings as they run. 

“Then why are they chasing us? Why did they follow us from the last town?” Geralt demands but doesn’t pull away. Jaskier never explained while they were walking, he just kept saying he’d tell Geralt when they reached Oxenfurt. Well here they are.

Jaskier huffs and shoves the Witcher down an even narrower alley with no outlet and boarded up windows between two buildings, “Their town alderman was one of the children from Blaviken. He’d turned the entire town against you. Now, follow me!”

Geralt starts to ask where since the alley is a dead end when Jaskier runs up a stack of crates like they’re a set of steps and then jumps up to plant his foot against the building closest to him. With a twist, the bard jumps off the brick and turns to kick off of the opposite wall, repeating this motion until he’s high enough to grab onto and hang from a sturdy clothesline strung diagonally through the alley. Geralt just stares at him slack-jawed, there’s no way in  _ hell _ he’s going to be able to do that.

Jaskier looks down from where he’s dangling from the line, “Come on, Geralt!”

“I can’t do that!”

“What do you mean? You just-”

“No, I saw you do it,” Geralt glances back at the mouth of the alley, the sounds of the men getting closer, “I mean, I  _ physically _ cannot do that.”

Jaskier frowns deeply as he thinks, looking up and around the alley. He then kicks his legs forward to start swinging on the line until he’s built up enough momentum and launches himself up to grab the awning of a boarded up window. The awning has no fabric covering so he grabs onto the wooden frame and places one foot against the wall. Geralt sees a flash of metal before one end of the clothesline is plummeting towards him, weighed down by the knickers hung on it.

“No time to lose, Geralt! I can hear them!”

Geralt grabs the line and starts scaling the wall with it, keeping his eyes on Jaskier as the bard tucks his knife back into his boot and then pulls himself up through the skeleton of the awning to stand on the frame. At the top of the clothesline is a metal hook dug deep into the brick wall but other than that there’s nothing close enough for Geralt to climb up to Jaskier with.

“Now what?” He asks a little desperately and Jaskier crouches down on the frame, his hand on the top of the building as he points at the hook.

“Jump off that! I’ll grab you!”

Geralt looks at the hook that can’t be more than three inches across and then up at Jaskier’s lean physique. Sure, he’s seen the bard perform a few rather spectacular physical feats but grabbing a Witcher’s an entire body weight?

The rope tightens in Geralt’s grip and he looks down to see the men starting to scale the wall with it. Jaskier extends his hand and looks at him encouragingly so Geralt takes a deep breath and grabs the top of the boarded up window the clothesline is hooked into as he pulls himself up to place one boot precariously upon the hook. The metal groans under his weight but doesn’t give and the Witcher’s breath is coming is short, fast pants as he feels a buzzing sense of panic that he isn’t familiar with.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says and he looks up to lock eyes with his bard, “You can trust me. I’ll catch you.”

Geralt stares at him a moment longer before nodding and steeling himself, his vision zeroing in on Jaskier’s extended hand as he bends his knee and jumps.

Geralt’s fingers wrap around Jaskier’s wrist and he grabs on tightly with his other hand as Jaskier grunts softly, letting go of the edge of the roof to lock his hands around Geralt’s forearm. He’s leaning back on the frame of the awning, the wood starting to crack under their combined weight, but his grip is secure and Geralt hazards a glance up at Jaskier’s face.

His cheeks are flushed and his eyes shut tightly as he bares his teeth in a grimace, his shoulders being pulled uncomfortably down. He doesn’t say a word though as he extends his legs, standing up from the deep crouch at an angle that has him hanging over open space and pulls Geralt up onto the awning frame as well. The wood splinters and they both scramble onto the roof, falling back beside each other to catch their breaths.

“Holy fuck,” Geralt gasps and Jaskier starts to laugh, reaching over to grab the Witcher’s hand in his own slightly sweaty one, “Holy fuck.  _ Jaskier _ . Where the fuck did you learn to do all  _ that? _ ”

Jaskier tilts his head to the side to look at Geralt happily, squeezing his fingers and shrugging, “I was a teenage boy attending Oxenfurt for four years. I couldn’t be having sex every second I wasn’t in class now, could I?”

Geralt blinks before laughing and shaking his head, lacing their fingers together unthinkingly, “You just keep surprising me, Jask.” His breath catches in his throat when he realizes what he’s done and he waits to see what Jaskier will do.

“What can I say?” Jaskier doesn’t pull his hand away. In fact, he wriggles to lay a little bit closer on the rooftop, “Being mysterious is pretty sexy.” Geralt looks over at him and finds that he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No knickers were harmed in the writing of this fic.


	6. You Spin My Head Right Round, Right Round

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier can be a little intense when he drinks. Good thing he doesn't drink much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's a bit parched in this one.
> 
> Jaskier kicking the shit out of somebody with his Powerful Legs was requested by [rogueandramblingdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis) and [Heronfem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem).
> 
> Please enjoy the thirst, LJ and Vinn :D

Jaskier has been drinking.

This isn’t as common an occurrence as it used to be, frankly, and that relieves Geralt to no end. When they first started traveling together, the bard drank like he was a man running from his ghosts and more than once Geralt had to rescue the man from a situation of his own creation while deep in the cups. But now, fifteen years later, Jaskier is much more responsible and mostly drinks whatever people buy him (so long as it passes Geralt’s visual inspection for anything untowards). 

However tonight, Jaskier is drinking. 

Geralt doesn’t remember what the occasion is to be honest, and he’s certain if he asks Jaskier he’ll get an entire soliloquy, so he keeps his trap shut and just watches to make sure his friend doesn’t hit on somebody he  _ really _ shouldn’t. It is amusing to watch Jaskier get drunk, though, for he goes through a certain number of stages of drunkenness before either he decides to turn in for the night or Geralt makes the decision for him.

Jaskier after one drink is fine since they’re usually drinking ale. He’s in high spirits because he’ll be performing and the beverage is a balm on his sore vocal cords. Geralt enjoys one drink Jaskier’s company the most since he’ll be flushed with adrenaline from playing and his hair will be an enticing combination of flattened from sweat and fluffed from his fingers raking through it. It always makes the Witcher want to touch because it just looks so  _ soft _ and like the head of a seeding dandelion.

Jaskier after two drinks is starting to get a pleasant buzz. His beaming grins become a permanent accessory and his peals of bright laughter will fill the tavern at even Geralt’s driest of jokes. Geralt likes two drink Jaskier as well, with his shiny eyes and red lips and the intoxicating smell of joy that radiates off of him like wildflowers in the summer. He feels like he’s looking at the sun, when Jaskier has had two drinks, and he doesn’t want to look away.

Three drinks in, Jaskier is usually mildly queasy so he’ll power through it and get to drink number four as quickly as possible.

After four drinks, it can be said that Jaskier is drunk. Lightly drunk, but drunk all the same. He becomes more tactile than he already is, touching Geralt’s arm, shoulder, knee, chest, jaw, hand, nose, hair, back, and even ass on a few memorable occasions. His words won’t slur just yet, but they come faster, shorter, each breath filled with a novel as though Jaskier’s been cursed to speak every fleeting thought that runs through his mind by the alcohol. His touches make Geralt’s skin burn and his words make Geralt’s head spin and sometimes it’s a little much to be around four drink Jaskier so Geralt will get him a fifth drink.

Jaskier after five drinks is maudlin. He becomes reserved and lost in thought, which he still will ramble to any willing ear (most often Geralt’s). He waxes philosophical, wonders about their place in the universe and how Destiny has them in her tangled web and how it makes the bard feel like he’s caught and he can’t escape. Geralt used to be uncomfortable when Jaskier would get five drinks deep, but now he just feels a sort of camaraderie since he’s reassured that he and Jaskier share similar viewpoints on many topics. This is the best time to ask the bard any questions if he wants a wholly truthful answer, as Jaskier will be too sad to lie.

At six drinks, Jaskier has returned to his former joviality and gets the urge to dance. He’ll search the tavern for the one, or sometimes more, person who will be his partner and they’ll do everything from waltzes to The Egg Dance, even without the presence of actual eggs. Geralt has to keep a close eye on Jaskier when he reaches six drinks because the line between flirty and fun begins to blur as he dances with whichever ladies or gents are able and willing. And this is when he often gets in the beginnings of trouble.

Seven is when Geralt tries to cut Jaskier off, much to the bard’s dismay. He becomes overtly sexual as he flirts with anything that moves and he reeks of the peppery scent of his lust. It makes something in Geralt’s stomach twist uncomfortably to watch Jaskier hit on everyone in the tavern before he, if he hasn’t been punched or taken up on his solicitations, slinks back to Geralt to flirt with the Witcher instead. He used to think it was Jaskier’s attention that made him uncomfortable, but he’s since realized the source of his discomfort is apparently being Jaskier’s last choice as a bed warmer. He knows it isn’t true, certainly Jaskier would fuck Geralt before he fucked, say, Valdo Marx or the emperor of Nilfgaard or his own grandfather, but it doesn’t make it hurt less.

At eight drinks Jaskier gets a bit… stabby. His temper takes precedence and this is when those beginnings turn into actual trouble as he argues and taunts and jeers at people he dislikes or who do something that displeases the bard.

Geralt wasn’t paying attention tonight as Jaskier drank, too wrapped up in his own thoughts about his bard, and Jaskier is at eight drinks.

This becomes apparent to the Witcher when there’s a sudden roar of outrage on the far side of the tavern and he looks up, spotting Jaskier with a scowl on his face and his lute clutched close to his chest. The bard is glaring down a man much taller and broader than him, and Geralt could mistake the man for another Witcher if he didn’t have such a keen sense of smell. 

Geralt gets up with a frown and a stifled sigh, he should have been keeping a closer eye on Jaskier instead of being so caught up in his musings. What does it matter if Jaskier isn’t as attracted to Geralt as the Witcher is to him? That isn’t to say he doesn’t smell Jaskier’s lust when around him, but the bard seems to always be horny so how can Geralt tell what’s for him and what isn’t? It’s not important, they’re friends and he can be content with that, he  _ can _ .

Although it’s much harder to be content with that when Jaskier looks moments away from either stabbing the man or becoming well acquainted with the sticky floor.

Geralt starts to open his mouth to speak as he approaches when he hears the man snarl, “and that fucking  _ freak _ you came in with. Bet you’re some kinda monster-fucker, ain’t ya?” Geralt quickens his pace then, the only thing that gets Jaskier angry faster than insulting his singing is insulting  _ Geralt _ , much to the Witcher’s chagrin and confuddlement. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt tries to get his attention, but it’s no use as the bard is suddenly moving. He twists away, spinning on the balls of his feet and lifting one knee to build more momentum as he turns, before he smoothly plants it down again and kicks his opposite foot up high. With a sickening crunch, Jaskier’s boot collides with the man’s jaw and Geralt spots a tooth or two fly from his bloodied lips. The larger human is knocked to the side and drops to the ground, rendered unconscious from the vicious attack.

Jaskier sneers at the man’s body before looking around the tavern, “Anyone else wanna call my friend a freak?” 

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” Geralt admonishes and picks the bard up over his shoulder, hauling him quickly up the stairs before any more damage can be done. “Jaskier,” he repeats as he sets his friend down on the bed in their room, the lute still held close to his chest, “What were you thinking?”

Jaskier glares at the floor with a sulking pout, “He called you a freak. And a bunch of other mean shit.”

“We’ve talked about this,” Geralt sighs and sits down next to the bard and Jaskier shifts closer, their thighs pressed together, “People are gonna say shit about me. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“It  _ is _ ,” Geralt turns to face him, “You can’t fight every shit-shoveler on the Continent, Jask.”

Jaskier grumbles something that sounds like  _ “I can sure try”, _ but then looks down at his lute, the sharp cinnamon scent of his anger fading away for the sorrowful sweetness of morning glories. Geralt glances down and frowns as well, reaching out and gently placing his hand on Jaskier’s arm.

“Did something happen to your lute?”

Jaskier shakes his head, pauses, then shrugs, “He broke a few strings. More than can be played without.”

Geralt’s frown deepens and he feels his own sparks of anger at the asshole downstairs, now feeling glad that Jaskier nearly roundhouse kicked him onto the next plane of existence, “We’ll find a luthier soon to get those replaced, okay?”

The bard nods and gets up to put his lute away in the case sitting open by the hearth in their room, his gait heavy on one side as he limps. “Are you injured?”

Jaskier shakes his head and secures his lute as he mutters, “Overextended my leg. Dancing isn't a proper warm-up for martial arts.”

Geralt watches him for a few moments before getting up and digging around in Jaskier’s bag, pulling out vials and sniffing each one until he finds what he’s looking for, “Alright, strip to your smalls and lay on your stomach on the bed.”

Jaskier looks over quickly, his ruddy cheeks flushing darker as his eyebrows creep up near his hairline, “I beg your pardon?”

“Then beg,” he teases before nodding his head at the bed, “You’ve given me a number of massages over the years. Only fair that I return the favor.”

“Oh, I uhh, a-alright,” Jaskier swallows audibly before fumbling with the buttons on his doublet, his jacket half done up.

Geralt watches him and then carefully probes, “Unless you’re uncomfortable?”

“No!” Jaskier turns bright red at his exclamation and clears his throat as he sheds his clothing methodically, “No, I um… ahem, it’s just unexpected. Not unwelcome.” Geralt nods and rubs the oil between his palms to warm it, the scent of chamomile filling the room. The wooden bed frame creaks slightly under Jaskier’s weight as he settles down on the mattress and then carefully lays down on his stomach, folding his arms under his head.

“Is this okay?” He asks softly and Geralt nods slightly, his eyes glued to Jaskier’s exposed back. “Geralt?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes,” he says gruffly, “Just, ah figuring out where I want to start.” A shudder runs down Jaskier’s body and gooseflesh rises on his skin, the scent of lust spiking in the room and mixing with the chamomile. Geralt roughly bites his lower lip as his hands hover over Jaskier’s back before he gently places them against the bard’s warm skin.

Jaskier jerks slightly and Geralt nearly pulls his hands away. “Sorry,” Jaskier murmurs, “Surprised me.”

Geralt hums slightly in response and takes a moment to feel Jaskier’s tense muscles twinging under his fingers until the bard slowly relaxes and he starts to spread the oil across Jaskier’s skin. He applies light pressure at first, reveling in the fact that his hands look almost  _ small _ against the broad expanse of Jaskier’s shoulders, until his friend lets out an involuntary, positively sinful moan when Geralt’s fingers press against a knot of tension along his spine.

The sound shoots straight to Geralt’s gut and his breath catches in his throat, his mouth going dry enough to absorb all of the waters of the Gwenllech. His hands falter for only half a second, not enough for Jaskier to notice, before he applies more pressure and coaxes another lewd groan from the bard. He has to close his eyes for a moment as his fingers skirt along Jaskier’s obliques, making his friend squirm slightly and mutter, “tickles.”

“Sorry,” Geralt breathes before taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He can do this. He can platonically give his best friend a full-body massage and not get a hard-on. Totally doable. 

He can’t do it. By the time he’s reached Jaskier’s lower back, he’s had to straddle the bard’s legs to be able to reach more comfortably. Between that, the absolutely pornographic noises Jaskier is making, and the way Geralt subtly lets his hands grip the bard’s hips so that his thumbs slide perfectly into the dimples of Jaskier’s ass, it was impossible for him to not get a boner. He internally curses his luck and lack of self-control as he openly stares at Jaskier’s ass, covered only by the thin cotton of his smallclothes.

The moment he’s done administering this massage he’s going to have to make up some excuse and take his leave. Find someplace to be alone for a little while. While he’s lost in his thoughts on what he’s going to do to handle this little… biological problem, and his hands travel along Jaskier’s strong thighs and shapely calves, he doesn’t notice as the bard slowly stops making as many sounds and his breathing deepens.

It isn’t until Geralt looks up, his hands wrapped loosely around Jaskier’s ankles, that he hears the slow heartbeat and soft snores of his friend. He takes another deep breath and smiles softly, his thumbs rubbing gently over the sharp ankle bones. Geralt then carefully stands up and extracts the blanket from beneath Jaskier, thanking whoever decided to make the bard a heavy drunk sleeper, and tucks him in with a hand slipping through silky russet hair.

“I’ll be back soon, Jask,” Geralt murmurs before pulling his boots on and leaving the room. As much as he’d like to stay and memorize every inch of Jaskier’s relaxed visage, he still has a different bard-related problem to take care of first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the fuck is [The Egg Dance](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Egg_dance) you ask? It's a medieval Easter dance where they put a fuckload of eggs on the ground and danced around without smashing them. Does this imply that there is a Witcher Jesus? No! They're all just so fucking stupid in The Witcher I wouldn't doubt they'd think up a dance where they just put fucking eggs on the ground and try not to smash them.


	7. Do You Even Lift, Bro?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert Lambert, what a prick. Can't even do Jaskier's party trick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier lifting a chair by one leg was requested by [stars-in-my-damn-eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsInMyDamnEyes/pseuds/StarsInMyDamnEyes)
> 
> Also, [Aard the Bard](https://dat-carovieh.tumblr.com/post/615226674397741056/jaskier-visits-kaer-morhen-and-invents-the-game) was created by [dat_carovieh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dat_carovieh/pseuds/dat_carovieh).

Geralt has made many mistakes in his long life. From the time he put ghost pepper in Vesemir’s soup instead of paprika to ignoring his responsibility to Destiny in the form of his Child Surprise to the day he scared his best friend off on the top of a mountain, Geralt’s life is riddled with mistakes. His biggest regret, however, was not introducing Jaskier to his family sooner.

After finding Cirilla, Geralt had pulled his head out of his ass and found Jaskier. Thankfully, the bard had been lurking in nearby courts; and, while he refuses to tell Geralt  _ why _ , exactly, they were so close together, Geralt has the sneaking suspicion that Jaskier was keeping an eye on him from afar. His bard and his Child Surprise get on like a house on fire and Geralt, after thoroughly apologizing for his behavior, had invited Jaskier to stay the winter with them in Kaer Morhen.

He’s never gotten a more enthusiastic yes from the bard (complete with a bone crushing hug that stole the breath from Geralt’s lungs), which is how he finds himself sitting in front of the fire with Ciri laughing herself silly beside him as Jaskier rough houses with Lambert on the bearskin rug. Eskel and Coën are grinning and jeering as they taunt Lambert and cheer Jaskier on, the bard’s doublet discarded in an attempt to keep it mildly clean while he dirties his pants and shirt on the floor.

His brothers had been wary of Jaskier at first, but quickly became enamored with Geralt’s bard. Eskel enjoys the challenge of a new Gwent foe, since Jaskier is quite good at that game from being a devilishly spectacular cheater. Lambert likes having someone he can horse around with that is more than willing to retaliate with barbed teases and cunning pranks. Coën appreciates a new set of ears to talk about the Griffins to, since he can only tell the same stories he has about his old family to the Wolves so many times, and Jaskier makes all the right sounds and says all the right things in all the right places.

Vesemir was the hardest for Jaskier to win over. He was suspicious and distrusting, even though he’d been hearing about Jaskier for two decades. It took Jaskier three weeks to earn Vesemir’s trust, proving his loyalty through providing aid in the kitchens when preparing meals, holding back on his teasing complaints about assisting with repairs to the keep, and cleaning anything and everything Vesemir asks him to without question. It wasn’t until Jaskier was playing music for them all, and Vesemir requested an old folk song from long before any of them were alive, that Jaskier truly gained his friendship by playing the ballad eagerly. 

“Fucking little prick bastard!” Lambert laughs as Jaskier turns them over again, the two of them crashing into the couch Vesemir is sitting on. Geralt would have been concerned for Jaskier’s safety, but he learned years ago that his bard is made of tough shit, the two of them wrestling frequently when they’re in high spirits.

“For fuck’s sake!” Vesemir growls, his tea sloshing out of his mug and onto his lap, narrowly avoiding the book in his other hand, “Watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry, Vesemir,” Lambert and Jaskier pause just long enough to chorus before Jaskier twists Lambert’s arm behind his back and plants his knee between the Witcher’s shoulder blades, pressing Lambert’s face into the rug.

“Agh! Fuck,” Lambert tries to spit out the fur getting into his mouth and twists his head beneath Jaskier’s large palm, “Fuck, okay! Okay, I concede! You fucking win, bardling!”

“Woohoo!” Jaskier crows as he jumps to his feet and holds out a hand to haul Lambert to his own, “That’s three for me. I’m catching up to you, Lambert.” 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t cream your pants,” Lambert jeers and shoves Jaskier’s shoulder with a grin, “I let you win this time.”

Jaskier laughs, only taking a small step to ensure he doesn’t lose his balance as he shoves Lambert back, “That’s what you said the other two times as well!”

“Watch out, Lambert, or else Julek’s gonna leave Kaer Morhen to take your place on the Path,” Coën chuckles and Eskel laughs heartily. Now that idea  _ does _ frighten Geralt a little, so he shifts on the couch to make space for his bard, who spots this and happily walks over to sit beside him with their thighs pressed together.

He doesn’t mind most of the games Lambert and Jaskier have been coming up with, their most recent being lovingly dubbed, by Lambert, “Surprise, Motherfucker”, in which they have to yell that phrase while tackling the other without warning. This game came into fruition after Geralt shut down their last one, a heart-stopping thing that Jaskier delightfully named “Aard the Bard”. He’s certain that Lambert and Jaskier are still playing that one in secret, but every time he tries to catch them in the act of Lambert blasting Jaskier off of high structures with an Aard sign, they seem to disappear like smoke in the wind.

“You sure you’re not secretly a Witcher, bardling?” Eskel teases as Lambert sits down heavily on the couch next to him, “I mean, you were able to beat Lambert three times at wrestling so far.”

“Nope!” Jaskier replies cheerfully, resting his elbows on his knees and Geralt glances over at the way his shirt stretches across his broad back, “I grew up with five brothers and three sisters. It was a madhouse in my home, so for any of us to get the upper hand we usually resorted to physical conflict. Not very becoming of nobility, I know, but there were so many more of us than there were of my parents. They knew they’d have no chance at controlling us fully.”

“Got any other party tricks up your sleeve then?”

Jaskier laughs with a nod, a mischievous glint in his eye, “Of course, what kind of bard would I be if I couldn’t impress the ladies and gentlemen with completely useless skills?”

“Well?” Lambert gestures vaguely at Jaskier, “Go on, bardling, show us a trick!”

He laughs and stands up with a nod, glancing around the room and fetching one of the heavy wooden chairs from the dining table. He carries it over and sets it down in the center of the couches before rolling his sleeves up and kneeling down in front of it. Geralt tilts his head slightly in interest as he watches Jaskier place his forearm on the ground, wrapping one hand around the bottom of the chair’s front left leg.

“Behold! As I lift this chair that weighs around… 10 kilos?” He glances at Vesemir who shrugs.

“More or less.”

“10 kilos! With one hand,” Jaskier announces dramatically and Geralt’s brothers raise their eyebrows in intrigue as they all watch Jaskier adjust his grip before lifting the chair up from the bottom of the chair leg. Coën whistles and Ciri applauds him as Jaskier stands up, holding the chair aloft.

Lambert laughs and shakes his head, “That’s not so hard. Try something else, bard.”

“Before you discount it,” Jaskier grins, looking over at the youngest Witcher with glittering eyes, “Try it yourself.” He sets the chair down again and Lambert narrows his eyes at the bard before standing up and stalking over.

“Okay, I will. Just to get that smug ass look off your fucking face.”

Jaskier steps back and crosses his arms over his chest and Geralt has to make a conscious effort not to stare at the way the fabric of Jaskier’s shirt stretches across his biceps. At corded forearms, veins and freckles bared to the warm fire and overlapping below his open collar. At the soft, dark chest hair that frames his strong chest, pectorals elevated and pushed together from the positioning of his thick arms. Geralt’s mouth feels dry and his face is hot as his eyes follow the lines of muscles pushing through creamy cotton and leading up to the fluttering skin over Jaskier’s pulse in his neck. He watches reverently as the bard’s adam’s apple bobs before glancing up to find blue eyes staring right back at him.

He jerks in surprise and Jaskier raises his eyebrows slightly in a silent question that Geralt doesn’t know how to answer as his face burns and he looks away quickly. When he looks again, Jaskier has turned his attention back to Lambert and is grinning as the young Witcher struggles to perform the same task.

“You must have magicked it!”

“I’ve done no such thing, Lambert. I possess no magic.”

“Well, how am I supposed to lift this fucking thing when it tips over the moment I pick it up?”

“I thought you said it was  _ easy _ ?”

“I’ll show you easy, motherfucker!” 

Jaskier grunts as Lambert tackles him once again, the two of them grappling across the floor with shouts and laughter. Geralt watches them fondly and startles slightly as Vesemir sits down beside him.

“You like that bard of yours,” his mentor says. It’s a statement but Geralt can hear the question hidden within it.

“I...hm, yes.”

“You should do something about that, then.”

Geralt looks over at Vesemir curiously, “And what do you suggest I do?”

“He’s human, Geralt,” Vesemir reminds him, “He isn’t going to live forever. It’s a wonder he doesn’t have any gray hairs already, you said he’s nearing fifty?”

“Forty-three,” Geralt murmurs, frowning at the thought of Jaskier’s mortality.

“Still middle-aged.”

“Hmm.”

Vesemir watches him watch Jaskier as the bard rolls around on the stone floor with Lambert in a headlock, “You nearly lost him once, son. Don’t spend the rest of your life wondering at what could have been when you lose him for good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this headcanon that Jaskier is extremely physical. Not just tactile in the sense of affectionate touching, but also will tackle you out of nowhere. Also, updates will slow down a bit as I backlog the rest of the chapters. If I write them all, then I can release them quickly!


	8. Yule Shoot Your Eye Out!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri's been a little down in the dumps, so Jaskier makes it better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is "lifting Geralt" provided by [andrewminyards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/pseuds/andrewminyards).
> 
> I did exactly the opposite of what I said I was gonna do (write all the rest of the fic and then post) and just wrote one chapter after being down in the pit of my woes for a while. Sorry and enjoy!

The days have gotten shorter and the nights colder as the world freezes over and turns blue with ice and snow. Geralt rises before the sun and goes to bed after it sets, spending long hours rebuilding the keep, training with his brothers, and keeping Jaskier and Ciri company. While wintering at Kaer Morhen allows the Witchers to recover from their difficult life on the Path, and Jaskier seems to be enjoying it well enough, Ciri has grown lethargic and reserved over the past few days. It’s Jaskier who manages to figure out what’s wrong, and he tells the others after the princess has gone to bed for the night.

“This will be her first year not celebrating Yule,” Jaskier says evenly, layering his hands atop the dinner table they’re gathered at, “Since the Fall of Cintra occurred just after it last year.”

“That’s the problem?” Lambert raises his eyebrows skeptically, “Missing a fucking holiday?”

“Lambert,” Vesemir scolds him and Jaskier raises a hand placatingly.

“It’s alright, the confusion is understandable. Witchers aren’t religious, correct?” Lambert presses his lips together and nods once. Jaskier smiles and continues, “Us lowly humans are, for the most part. To some, Yule is the religious celebration of Odin and the Wild Hunt; to others, it’s a representation of familial bonding and good tidings. My family always celebrated it more out of propriety than anything else, but I know Yuletide was a big deal in Cintra.”

Jaskier grows quiet for a few moments and Geralt frowns slightly, “She misses her family. I figured… well, Yule isn’t so hard to host. You get a tree to decorate with baubles and ribbon, have a nice dinner together, spend time with your family. Some families exchange gifts but I’m certain Ciri won’t mind if we don’t do that with her.”

Surprisingly, it’s Vesemir who speaks up, “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Lambert, you, Eskel, and Cirilla can go out and get a tree tomorrow morning. Geralt and Jaskier can find things to decorate it with and I’ll work on clearing a path to town. We aren’t due for another blizzard for a while yet so we should have time to take turns going to town, if you so desire.”

They all nod in agreement, Lambert a bit begrudgingly so, and the rest of the night is spent in merrymaking that’s regretted in the morning when they wake with pounding headaches at Vesemir’s insistence. Geralt very nearly goes back to sleep when he hears Jaskier’s sleepy voice wander by his door and he’s powerless to get up. Jaskier first thing in the morning is Geralt’s favorite Jaskier, followed  _ very _ closely by post-performance Jaskier. 

Geralt wakes before the bard usually, and he gets the treat of seeing Jaskier wake up when they’re camping or sharing a room. He loves hearing the soft noises the bard will make as his body rouses him for the day, his mind dragging its feet and making him sluggish. He’ll look delightfully sleep rumpled, with creases on his cheeks from the pillow or his arm if they’re in the woods, and bleary blue eyes. Geralt loves talking to him like this too, loves hearing the mumbled and slurred responses that are interrupted with yawns and quiet groans as Jaskier stretches. It’s also incredibly easy to confuse him, first thing in the morning, as his brain catches up with the conversation and a slow smile will break out like the sun between clouds on a rainy day.

So, Geralt gets up when he hears Jaskier asking Vesemir where he can find things to decorate a tree with in his sleep-roughened voice. And the low, almost rumble, of sleepy Jaskier always does something to him, but Geralt’s become extremely skilled in not letting those thoughts get out of hand before he has to take something else  _ in _ hand.

Geralt pulls his boots on and goes to the door to open it with a yawn, scratching his stubbly cheek as he peers out into the hall through bleary eyes. Jaskier is trailing after Vesemir as he struggles to turn a shirt right side out again and the eldest Witcher makes his way down to the dining hall. After taking a moment to admire Jaskier’s toned back, he calls out, “Morning, Jaskier. Vesemir.”

They both stop to turn, Vesemir nodding his greeting and Jaskier pausing with his arms in his sleeves to wave. “Morning, Geralt,” he smiles sleepily and then pulls the shirt over his head, leaving it unlaced at the throat and untucked. “Big day ahead of us, eh?”

“Mm,” Geralt nods in agreement, walking over to join them, “We’ve got old clothing and such in the library, haven’t we?” He directs this to Vesemir who confirms with a smile. 

“You should be able to turn it into ribbons and other such pretty things. We also have corn kernels, I’ve heard of popcorn strings being popular these days.”

“I wouldn’t know, but that sounds exciting,” Jaskier smiles and loops his arm through Geralt’s, “Come along then, Geralt. To the library!” He starts pulling Geralt beside him and Geralt stifles a snicker.

"Other way, Jaskier.”

He turns on his heel to march in the opposite direction. “To the library!”

By the time Ciri is awake, Jaskier had dug through every old article of clothing belonging to the young boys left to the Witchers, picking out the brightest colors that don’t clash too much, and brought them all to the kitchen. Geralt’s been tasked with using a knife to cut the clothes into ribbons while Jaskier steadily moves the oiled, cast iron pan on the stove. Corn kernels rattle in the pan as they swish through the hot oil. 

“What’re you doing?” She rubs her eyes as she squints at them, “why is Geralt massacring fabric?”

Jaskier glances over his shoulder with a small wince as he watches Geralt tear another ribbon. He’s trying his best, okay? He’d like to see Jaskier do this while  _ he _ makes fucking popcorn. On second thought, Jaskier would probably be excellent at this and Geralt’s not the best cook, so maybe he’d rather not swap.

“He’s making ah… ribbons,” Jaskier says carefully with a smile, “And I’m making popcorn to string.”

“Whatever for?” She tilts her head curiously.

Jaskier glances at the doorway with a grin, “Why don’t you go see what Lambert and Eskel are doing and then get back to me, hm?”

She regards him suspiciously, but when she looks at Geralt, who shrugs, she begrudgingly accepts his answer. Ciri goes over to the door to the Great Hall and opens it, looking out into the room. A grand pine tree, over six feet tall, is stood up in the center of the room in a large pot as the other Witchers trim the branches to make it more shapely. 

Ciri audibly gasps, “Is that… are you? Are we? Is this?”

“You seemed sad,” Geralt grunts, focusing on trying not to butcher another ribbon, “Jaskier said it’s ‘cause you wouldn’t be celebrating Yule this year. So we are. It was his idea.”

She has tears in her eyes and rushes over to Jaskier, throwing her arms around his waist and burying her face in his chest, “Thank you! Oh my gods, thank you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier looks vaguely alarmed for a moment before his expression softens and he wraps one arm around her shoulders, “You’re very welcome. Now, you ought to get back, Princess, because I believe this corn is just about to-“

_ Pop! _

Ciri laughs and jumps back as all the kernels start popping in tandem, leaping up above the edge of the pan from the little explosions. Jaskier grins and continues to shake the pan, clapping a lid over it when all the kernels are popped and pulling it off the heat. Geralt finds himself watching this as he slices through the next piece of fabric and the knife cuts right through the edge of his thumb.

“Fuck!”

Jaskier and Ciri both turn to him immediately, twin expressions of concern on their faces. Jaskier hurries over, grabbing bandages out of a cupboard and then gently taking Geralt’s hand in his cool ones. Geralt’s always wondered why Jaskier’s hands aren’t hot like his own, probably poor circulation in the bard, but it lends itself to the soothing feeling of his lute callused fingertips on Geralt’s palm as Jaskier efficiently bandages his thumb. 

Then, to Geralt’s eternal shock, Jaskier brings Geralt’s thumb to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the bandages with a grin as he looks up through his eyelashes at Geralt. “I’ve heard that kissing makes things better,” Jaskier murmurs, an attractive blush across his cheeks. Geralt clears his throat, trying to find his voice, and clears his throat again.

“I, um, y-yeah.” Real smooth, Geralt, he scolds himself and tries again, “It might be more effective somewhere else, though.”

Ciri makes a sound like vomiting and loudly announces, “You two are gross, I’m fucking out of here.”

“Language,” Geralt says as a dark flush spreads across his face. Jaskier seems to be doing his best impression of a tomato as he looks like he wants to melt through the floor in mortification. He probably forgot Ciri was there, Geralt sure did.

The moment is passed now, and Jaskier rubs the back of his neck as he steps back, “I think we’ve enough ribbons now, don’t you?” He nods his head at the large pile of scraps on the table, “We wouldn’t want you losing a limb in the name of Yule.” He then gathers up the ribbons and popcorn and hurries after Ciri, out of the room, and Geralt is left feeling off-kilter and disappointed.

He joins them a while later, once he’s gotten himself under control, and sees that Vesemir has created a wooden star out of some scraps. Ciri is stringing popcorn dutifully with a needle and thread while Jaskier, Eskel, and Lambert are all arguing over who should put the star atop the tree. 

“It ought to be Ciri,” Jaskier points out, “It’s  _ her _ Yule celebration.”

“It’s your Yule celebration, bard,” Lambert has his arms crossed, “I think I ought to do it, as I’m the youngest Witcher and all.”

“Yes, but you’ve celebrated Yule before with Aiden,” Eskel teases, “I’ve only ever put a star atop a tree in village squares because they need someone tall.”

“Why doesn’t Geralt do it?” Ciri interrupts, and they all look at her, “I’ve put toppers on loads of trees. But have you ever done it, Geralt?” She turns her eyes on him and he feels a bit embarrassed as he shakes his head. 

“Well, we ought to fix that!” Jaskier beams, a mischievous look in his eyes. Geralt narrows his own suspiciously.

“Tree’s too tall. You don’t even have a ladder in here.”

“Wind’s too strong to get to the shed,” Vesemir explains as he hands the star to Geralt, “Jaskier can help you. Eskel, Lambert, and I are going to get some lunch started.”

“We are?” Lambert asks and Eskel elbows him, “Ow! Fuck, alright, we are!” 

Geralt arches an eyebrow at them as they pass and Jaskier walks over, “Come on now, Witcher. It’s time we rectify this aspect of your woefully traumatizing childhood.”

His lips twitch as he turns his attention to Jaskier, “And how are we going to do that?”

“I’ll give you a boost. Just make sure you hold your balance.” 

Geralt looks at him dubiously but then nods in agreement, accepting the fact that he’s going to end up with a bruised tailbone when Jaskier drops him. It’s easier to not argue though. Jaskier gets down on one knee with his back to Geralt, squaring his shoulders. Geralt sighs and uses Jaskier’s knee as a step as he carefully climbs onto the bard’s shoulders. 

Jaskier then holds onto Geralt’s thighs as he stands up smoothly, walking closer to the tree so Geralt can reach. Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hair at first as his own balance wavers, but once he’s regained it and mutters an apology, he feels very secure atop his perch. Jaskier’s hands are large and strong on his thighs and Geralt swallows as he focuses on keeping his thoughts pure and innocent. It wouldn’t do to have any sort of reaction with his crotch at the back of Jaskier’s head like it is.

“Alrighty, Geralt, you should be tall enough,” Jaskier says as he reaches the edge of the tree, “Just reach on up there and plop it on!”

He glances down but nods, keeping one hand buried in Jaskier’s hair and reaching up with the other to carefully place the star on the highest branch. He adjusts it until it sits straight, and then Jaskier steps back so that they can admire it. He has yet to put Geralt down but Geralt can’t find it in him to mind anyway.

“It’s beautiful, Geralt!” Ciri exclaims, getting to her feet to stand beside them, “Oh, that’s such a nice spot for it. You did better than I would have, I think.” She doesn’t sound mournful about it as she pats the side of his leg and looks up at him.

“Well, done, son,” Vesemir praises from behind them. Geralt twists to look over his shoulder, and his cheeks turn red at the knowing look in Vesemir’s eyes. He hunches his shoulders slightly and looks down to find Jaskier’s twinkling eyes looking up at him.

“Yeah,” Geralt smiles, holding Jaskier’s gaze, “I guess it is pretty.”


	9. Rest in Fucking Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jaskier finds evidence of Valdo Marx's wrongdoing, he takes matters into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is "ripping something apart with his bare hands like a BEAST" by [kaermorons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons).
> 
> We're back babey! Or at least for this chapter. I said it wouldn't take me another month to update and then it did, oops!

How they ended up in Cidaris, Geralt isn’t sure.

Allegedly, Jaskier had an invitation to play at the palace. He said he’d be performing with other troubadours in a troupe for the King and Queen. Geralt had noticed that he didn’t sound all that enthused about it, but when he offered they skip this Jaskier had shaken his head and said, “Coin is coin, dear Witcher. And something we’re dangerously short on at the moment.”

Which is how he finds himself standing off to the side in a large banquet hall, nursing a tankard of ale and holding Jaskier’s glass of wine. He doesn’t trust the way people have been eyeing Jaskier all night, and wants to keep an eye on the bard’s drink for Jaskier’s safety. 

He’s had a nagging feeling that something isn’t quite right though, either, all night. Watching carefully, he can see the building tension in Jaskier’s shoulders. The way something is stiffening the bard’s back as he plasters on an increasingly wooden smile and dances around with the other bards on the stage. 

It isn’t until the door to the hall opens for the umpteenth time that night and a servant announces to the hall, “The Troubadour of Cidaris, Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, and Professor at Oxenfurt: The Master Bard Valdo Marx!” That Jaskier’s growing tension is visibly starting to overwhelm him. 

Geralt can see the way his fingers move stiffly on the fretboard of his lute, not enough to hinder his playing but visible to a critical eye. Jaskier’s jaw is set and his eyes are narrowed as he watches his rival strut through the banquet hall.

Valdo Marx is a handsome man, with curly blond hair and a well-groomed goatee. He has a green feathered hat perched jauntily upon his head and it’s paired with a matching doublet and trouser ensemble. He walks around with confidence, winking at the ladies and laughing with the men as he flits from conversation to conversation. 

The musical troupe takes a break and Jaskier makes his way to Geralt’s side, face flushed and hair plastered to his forehead with the thin sheen of sweat that’s built up in the heat of the hall. The top button of his silver doublet is open, revealing more of his neck than is proper for a bard in a court function such as this.

“Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier flashes him a tense smile as he takes his goblet of wine from Geralt’s hand, finishing off the drink as fast as he can and then waving a server over for another. Geralt finds himself watching Jaskier’s Adam’s apple bob with each deep swallow of wine, his golden gaze flitting back up to Jaskier’s blue eyes when the goblet is lowered again.

Geralt hums and glances around the room, having lost sight of the famed troubadour of Cidaris, “If I recall correctly, this Valdo Marx is someone you tried to kill.”

Jaskier makes an indignant noise at the back of his throat, “What, are we going around and arresting people for  _ attempted _ murder now?” Geralt raises an eyebrow at him and he waves his hand dismissively, “Don’t look at me like that. I ended up not being the one with the wishes anyway.”

“Would you have felt bad if you were?”

“Of course not,” Jaskier sniffs, “Every decision I make I believe in wholeheartedly.”

“And how many of those decisions have ended in someone dying?”

Jaskier blinks and then looks a bit sheepish, “More than you’d care to know, actually.”

Geralt stares at him for a long moment before sighing and shaking his head, “I shouldn’t be surprised, bard.”

“Then why are you?”

Geralt opens his mouth to reply when he’s interrupted by a boisterous, “Julian Alfred Pankratz, as I live and breathe!”

Jaskier immediately looks like he’s swallowed something sour. He then shakes out his hands and replaces the expression with an easy, smile of camaraderie, “Valdo, how are you?”

The troubadour of Cidaris is wearing a broad grin as he walks over, clasping Jaskier by the shoulders and pulling him in to place a kiss on either flushed cheek. Geralt suspects the flush is less from exertion with each passing moment, if the pepper scent of rising anger is anything to go by.

“Oh, I’m wonderful, darling,” Valdo gushes, “I would have performed tonight but the King approved my sabbatical! I’ve been on holiday since last month.”

“How wonderful to hear.”

“Indeed! I’m sure you heard the maitre de as well, I’ve secured a faculty position at Oxenfurt for the winters!”

“Congratulations,” Jaskier grits out.

“Thank you so very much, Julian. I mean, without you entertaining the masses with the drivel you call music, I’d have never had time to meet my beautiful fiance.”

Jaskier’s eye twitches. “I’m sure they’re  _ lovely _ .”

“Oh, he is,” Valdo sighs performatively, “Tall, dark, handsome. And with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen! And he’s a musician as well.”

Geralt frowns slightly, glancing between Jaskier and Valdo. Jaskier would have told him if he suddenly got engaged, wouldn’t he? Granted, with the fury rolling off of Jaskier in waves, he finds it hard to believe that Valdo Marx is talking about the traveling minstrel.

“Doesn’t sound familiar or anything, huh?” Jaskier asks, annoyed.

Valdo blinks owlishly up at Jaskier, shorter than Geralt’s companion by several inches, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Julian.”

“Nothing, forget it.”

“Oh,  _ oh, _ oh, Julian,” Valdo sounds patronizing as he gives Jaskier a simpering smile, “You didn’t think… oh you  _ did! _ How adorable. You think I’m still hung up over you? It’s purely coincidence that my fiance shares some physical traits with you.”

“I can assure you, Valdo, I didn’t think anything of the sort,” Jaskier forces through grit teeth, “I’m very happy for you and your betrothed.”

“Mm, yes, we ought to have a toast to my good fortune!” Valdo lifts his wine and grins before taking a sip, “And how have you been, Julian? Still slogging around the Continent after a witcher, I see.”

“Yes, and quite happy with it.”

“Hm, you certainly…  _ look _ thrilled,” Valdo rakes his eyes up and down Jaskier’s tense body before tutting, “And  _ still _ wearing your doublets improperly. Honestly, Julian, it’s a wonder you haven’t been arrested for indecency yet.” He reaches out to do up the button at Jaskier’s throat when the bard slaps Valdo’s hands away. This makes the wine in the troubadour’s goblet slosh out over the edge and spill all down the front of Jaskier’s silver doublet.

Jaskier jumps back, the stiff pepper of his anger spiking, “You’ve got to be  _ fucking _ kidding me.”

“Such language!” Valdo gasps, “It was just an accident, Julian. I’d offer you wear one of  _ my _ doublets, but we both know you won’t fit. If you’d like someplace to hide as your silks are cleaned, I can show you to my office.”

Jaskier sighs harshly through his nose, pinching the bridge of it, “Yes, fine. Alright.”

“Excellent! Right this way,” Valdo leads him out of the banquet hall and Geralt follows a few steps behind. This might be the single most unpleasant person Geralt’s ever had the displeasure of being in the presence of, and he hates  _ most _ nobility. He’s starting to understand why Jaskier wished death by apoplexy upon the man.

Valdo opens the door to a moderately sized office, large mahogany desk across from a curtained window. There are songbooks and quills and parchment strewn across the desktop and the troubadour holds out his hand once he’s closed the door behind him.

“Doublet, if you please, Julian.”

Jaskier grinds his teeth as he unbuttons his doublet the rest of the way, dropping the soiled garment unceremoniously into Valdo’s hand.

“Thank you, dear. I’ll return with something for you to wear as soon as I can. You certainly can’t be walking around the castle in just your  _ shirtsleeves _ . That may fly for amongst those common types you spend so much of your time with, but not in the presence of royalty.”

The wood of the neck of Jaskier’s lute groans in his tight grip, “Thank you, Valdo. You’re too kind.”

“I know I am. Make yourself comfortable.” He waves and leaves the room and the moment the door is closed Jaskier gently sets down his instrument and begins to pace, trying to work off some of the angry energy that’s built up within him. Geralt watches him stride around the office and mutter to himself for a few minutes before drifting over to the desk, idly flipping open one of the songbooks and skimming through it.

His brow furrows as he reads one composition and then flips to the next one. And then the one after that.

“Jaskier, c’mere,” Geralt instructs. Jaskier sighs irritably but does as he’s told, walking to Geralt’s side. “These all seem familiar. But not like I’ve heard them before.”

Jaskier leans forward to read what Geralt is pointing at. The sharp pepper of anger, that had been slowly dissipating, spikes back into an inferno as Jaskier flips through songbook after songbook, his face turning red and his hands starting to shake.

With a snarl, Jaskier grabs the various books strewn across Marx’s desk. “These are  _ my _ compositions!  _ My _ lyrics!  _ My _ rhythms and rhymes! How dare that talentless  _ hack _ of a whoreson steal my work--  _ again!” _

He layers the books on top of one another and, with an enraged grunt, rips them in half.

Geralt swallows thickly, watching with wide eyes as the books split and Jaskier’s sleeves tighten across his biceps. The dusty scent of paper wafts into the air with the spray of pulp from the violent action. He should be concerned, Jaskier just damaged the life’s work of another bard, but instead he finds himself struggling to keep his hands to himself.

“Mother--  _ fucking _ asshead,” Jaskier growls and the gravelly way the usually smooth tenor pitches down boils Geralt’s blood. He feels hot and flustered and he can’t do anything but watch with his hands balled at his sides as Jaskier tears the books again, shredding paper and leather. 

The bard’s cheeks are flushed and his blue eyes shine bright with his rage. He throws the books away from himself, the paper fluttering to the ground and strewn all around him. Jaskier’s back is still ramrod straight and he lets out a guttural yell as he plants his booted foot on the edge of the desk itself and kicks as hard as he can. The heavy furniture scoots loudly across the stone floor as it jolts back.

“Jask-” Geralt squeaks and clears his throat. He tries again, “Jaskier.”

_ “What,  _ Geralt?” Jaskier snaps as he whirls on the witcher. “I swear to all the gods if you’re going to lecture me about being  _ responsible _ and-and taking the fucking high road or some shit right now-- not getting  _ involved-- _ when you do, in fact, get involved  _ all of the time!” _ His pink lips are pulled down in a furious scowl as he stalks over and into Geralt’s space, jabbing his finger at Geralt’s chest.

He can smell the hot, peppery rage rolling off of Jaskier as the bard stands straight and tall, nearly nose-to-nose with Geralt. He always forgets that they’re of a height, Jaskier’s shining eyes level with his own.

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something else when Geralt cuts him off, his own mouth moving before his brain has caught up, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Jaskier’s livid expression takes on a confused twist, “Wha-”

And Geralt’s kissing him.

He grabs Jaskier’s hip in one hand, pulling the bard’s pelvis flush against his own, as his other wraps around the pointed finger dug into his breastplate. Jaskier’s lips are soft and a little chapped and so very warm against his own that Geralt can’t quite stifle the quiet groan that rolls up his throat and over his tongue. 

Jaskier is stiff for all of half of a second before he’s kissing back, lacing their fingers together and resting his free hand on Geralt’s forearm. His fingers dig into the leather of Geralt’s pauldron as the witcher slips his tongue past Jaskier’s lips, a soft huff slipping from the bard’s mouth and warming Geralt’s chin.

He nips at Geralt’s tongue, teeth grazing lightly, before his own delves into Geralt’s mouth. It’s hot and wet and messy and nothing like Geralt thought it would be like but also  _ exactly _ what he thought it would be like. It’s almost awkward if it weren’t so impassioned, so much built up tension from decades of travel together finally breaking and resolving in this exact moment.

They’re both breathing heavily when they separate, Geralt opening his eyes as he rests his forehead against Jaskier’s. The bard still has his eyes closed, but the pepper of his anger has disappeared. Replaced, instead, with the intoxicating sweetness of summer and sunshine and unfettered joy.

Jaskier’s eyes flutter open, blue gaze hazy and unfocused, “What was that for?” He barely speaks above a whisper, dazed smile pulling his lips upwards.

“I wanted to,” Geralt murmurs, tilting his head to brush another kiss to Jaskier’s lips. This one is slower, less desperate. The way molasses flows, thick and heavy and spicy. 

“Mm,” Jaskier hums into Geralt’s mouth before whispering, “But why now? I can’t imagine I was all that alluring in my rage.”

Geralt swallows hard, his throat clamming up as his face burns. He keeps his eyes closed to guard himself against Jaskier’s expression as he mutters, “I, ah-- I disagree.”

There’s a pregnant pause and then Geralt is stumbling backwards as Jaskier shoves him against the wall, lips heavy on his own again. Geralt grabs the collar of Jaskier’s shirt as he allows himself to be manhandled, his heart fluttering and head spinning as blood rushes south.

His knees are weak when Jaskier pulls back again, taking a half step away and wearing a cocky grin, “You should disagree with me more then.”

It’s Geralt’s turn to be dazed and he gives his head a shake to clear it, “You’re unbelievable.”

“Maybe, but you like it anyway.”

Geralt has to agree.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


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